


Storms of Red

by Adadzio



Series: Canon Divergence/AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Gender Roles, Illegitimacy, Patriarchy, Relationship Study, Sansa and Mel the red-headed feminist duo of Westeros, Sansa and Stannis are frenemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Out of the ash I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air.</i>
</p><p>On Dragonstone, a beaten king refuses to choose between family and duty. A waning priestess is forced to confront the cursed girl from her past. And somewhere in a treacherous winter, a lost wolf echoes the song of a mockingbird.<br/>Together and worlds apart, they must move forward to determine the fate of Westeros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE | The Bastard of Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> **Welcome to Storms of Red!**  
>  This is a character study of Melisandre and the relationships she holds with herself and others. A full canon divergence it is not—political/military details and high fantasy are not the focus here. Rather, it's a sort of extended Melisandre POV, an exploration of her psychology as impacted by slavery, sexual abuse, and mental illness.  
> Storms of Red roughly follows the GoT timeline, but characterisations are more aligned with ASOIAF canon. Thus Stannis is mid-30s at this point and Mel appears in her 20s. Everything else is an, er…bastard mix of canons. 
> 
> Please do share your thoughts and feelings (even if your previous comments were lost in editing!)  
> Thanks for reading ^-^  
> xx

 

* * *

Dragonstone was silent apart from the echoes of the dark waves, the castle and all its inhabitants brooding like shadows as the sun dipped behind foggy mountains. The island had always been grim, foreboding. Unforgiving. Recent months had been especially trying.

The red priestess knew this as she made her way quietly through the corridors, pale, heart-shaped face shrouded in her customary red veils. Yes, it was a dark time, and an inconvenient one, but that did not stop her from barging into the king's rooms unannounced.  

“Your Grace," she greeted him breathlessly. "We must speak.”

Stannis Baratheon frowned, glancing up from a stack of parchment. His guards hadn’t stopped her from entering. _Would he chastise them,_  she wondered? _No._ They knew she had free reign about the royal apartments, including his chambers. 

When the king spoke, she imagined the action physically pained him. “I am busy."  _Busy with what? Sulking over your losses at the Blackwater?_   "You may have an audience tomorrow," he muttered. This would not do. He seemed weary of others, as always, but apparently even her company was unwelcome tonight.

Melisandre’s eyebrows knit together in irritation. “It is far too urgent for that.”

“Urgent?” He was only partially listening, still studying the scroll in front of him, dark blue eyes lost beneath the sharp lines of his face.

“Our…personal matter.” That caught Stannis’s attention. He finally set down the parchment.

When she didn’t speak right away, he sighed impatiently. “Out with it, then.”

Melisandre lowered her startling eyes, wondering how best to broach such a delicate subject. “It has been a fortnight.”

* * *

It had all started the day she departed from the Crownlands.

What great irony that she needed to leave her rightful king to retrieve his bastard nephew, a boy fathered by Robert on Stannis's own marriage bed. Still, he was a boy with king’s blood, and power, as such. A potent offering to the Lord of Light, she’d decided. In her heart she had the highest hopes. In rare dreams she saw Edric as the one to waken the great stone dragons of the castle, to fulfil the promise of the bleeding comet. Through him she could fill the dim sky with the dance of dragons, as in Old Valyria. It would be difficult to persuade Stannis to give her the boy, but she was up to the task. They needed to take action now, else they'd surely fail to cultivate the fire needed, and Westeros would suffer the consequences.

But that was just the problem. The boy would have been the perfect offering, but he was not, because she'd never set foot off Dragonstone that day. Her king’s insistence that she stay had been stronger than her determination.

“Make me another son,” he had requested, and the look in his eyes was so very persuasive, but Melisandre knew even then that it was impossible.

“I cannot…” She knew better than to go against her instincts. “This I told you, my king, after Cortnay Penrose fell…you don’t have the strength for another. It would kill you.”

Stannis, however, was a Westerosi man, and a stubborn one at that. “I’m not so easily killed," he insisted. "Men have been trying for years.”

She shouldn’t have even listened beyond that. She should have pulled away and gotten into that boat, gone to find the raven-haired bastard, done what she had to do. Instead she let him pull her against him and whisper his desire into her ear.

The sun was red, then, but his words were warmer than even its rays. She shouldn’t have felt a stirring in her heart—not when her cold, iron king begged her to stay. She shouldn't have, but she did, and it weakened her resolve.  _We must do our duty,_  her mind hissed, but her sinful nature was ultimately victorious.

“Wait a fortnight,” he proposed. “You may leave for Storm's End, then, if we are unsuccessful.”

 _His fires burn low,_  her mind warned, and she should have heeded that alarm. Instead she yielded to him. “A fortnight, Your Grace…no more.”

That night when he came to her chamber, she was struck by how different it all was. Their encounters had always been rushed and sparse, initiated out of unfeeling duty or illicit need in his tent. The first time they'd been together, Stannis had simply grit his teeth and pushed into her.  _How it had hurt!_   Her skin stung as she was spread over the ridges of his pavilion maps like some savage sacrifice. Oh, she had still enjoyed it, despite herself. Something about seducing a rigid man like Stannis Baratheon sent a thrill through her veins, and besides—she was devoted to him, body and soul. The Lord had seen to that by showing her his image in the flames. Little had made sense in those days, but the young warrior had remained carved in her mind, back when she was called by another name and living in the hells of servitude. Hard and firm she'd clung to his silhouette in the fire, and it was his image that taught her to survive. _Her champion._

She felt that flutter in her breast the first time they'd bound shadows, and the second, but this time was decidedly more deliberate. It was unhurried, like a prayer, or her morning devotions to R’hllor, and he actually met her eyes as it happened. “I want you,” he had said on the shores of Dragonstone. She felt wanted then.

Yet Melisandre also felt a hint of sorrow in their union. He was in a despairing state, her king, utterly broken after the Battle of Blackwater, needing her beyond lust. She knew it was much more to him than just a duty of shadowbinding—it was one small comfort in the blackness of the world they lived in.

And it was a mistake.

Melisandre knew even then, yet she still held out an infantile hope, welcoming him into her arms and her bed. That night after he spilled into her, she fervently said the prayers into her flames, pouring her blood and soul into the sorcery so that she might conjure another shadow for him. But the following evening she snuck up to his chamber with a furrowed brow.

“It was not enough,” she said simply, then locked the door behind her. He did not argue.

And so it was the next night after the bloody sunset, and the night after, and for two weeks straight as she took more and more of him, and gave more and more of herself in return. Each night she ached, and not just physically. She pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion over her flames, skin burning, bleeding for him. Her heart was pained with the exertion, and all to grant him his request, to give her king some glimmer of hope. She should have known better. It was a foolish, selfish indulgence, and it had wasted much time and energy.

Even worse—it had created another problem.   

 

* * *

_“It has been a fortnight.”_

“I suppose it has." A moment passed as Stannis pondered the fact. "So your magic did not work.”

“I have given you proof enough that R'hllor's power is real,” she said shallowly. “But this time your fires did not…”  _Bind?_   No, he needn’t know the full process of the sorcery. “You are too weak,” she said simply. If his pride was wounded by her choice of words, he did not show it.

“And now you’re abandoning me.” It wasn’t a question.

“I will never abandon you,” Melisandre murmured, walking slowly to the hearth. She could not hide her disappointment. “We may send for Robert's son now, if you’ll permit me, but first there is something we must address.”

“Yes, your urgent matter. Then address it,” he said bitterly. When she turned back to him, there was an unreadable expression on her face.

She'd considered not telling him and simply dealing with the matter on her own—of course she had. But in truth, she wanted him to see the damage he had done. She wanted him to admit that he should have trusted her in the first place.

“There’s been a consequence of your  _efforts_ , Your Grace,” she stated. “I should like your permission to remedy it, so I may do my next duty.” Stannis raised an eyebrow, obviously uncomprehending. She sighed. “Shall I spell it out?”

“Clearly.”

Melisandre fisted her hands in the red of her robes. “There is a child.”

A brief silence passed, and then he spoke, rather unfazed. “Was that not the point?”

The priestess tilted her head at the floor. “This is…different.”

“How?”

Her next words were very careful, as if speaking to an innocent boy. “We bound nothing, but your life force did…take.”

He seemed to understand now. Revulsion spread across his face. “That’s not possible.”

“Are you unfamiliar with the process, my king?”

Stannis scowled, rising to his feet. “Hold your tongue, woman. I meant you could not know so early.”

“I do.”

“No, how could you know? It is far too soon.”

“I just know,” she insisted, watching as the news—and panic—set in. He began to pace the chamber, and she sighed again.  _Of all things, he is wary of me detecting it too early?_   It was as if he had learned nothing of her abilities. “I knew the moment it happened. And I could have prevented it, but with the other rituals…” She trailed off. “Do I have your permission to correct the matter?”

Stannis stopped pacing to study her. “'Correct?’”

The priestess shifted. “I have methods,” she said vaguely.

To her shock, he shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not.” He picked up his pacing again.

The air felt heavy with tension. “Your Grace…” she began anxiously. “We do not have time to wait for a maester, such complications delay the urgent work that must be done. Allow me to resolve this now.“

“My answer is no.”

“No?” she retorted, frustration building. “So I cannot act until it's been confirmed? Then precious time will have been wasted, and even then it may be too late to take action. You think an old man will know better how to— ”

“You're not listening,” he interrupted. “No one is ‘correcting’ anything.”

Melisandre stared at him in disbelief, moving boldly to block his path. “What are you saying?”

“You are not killing it,” he said bluntly, pushing her aside to continue his anxious walking.

The red priestess shut her eyes as blood pounded in her ears. “What is your brilliant plan, then?” she demanded, too angry to address him with formality. “As if I would even consider— "

“Clearly you did, else you’d not have asked for permission.”

Melisandre prayed for her emotions to settle and ebb away. For several long minutes there was nothing but the sound of his damned pacing. When she spoke again, her voice was tight. “What you suggest is unthinkable. I am your advisor, equal to any man in your court. And still you rob me a fair chance to serve you!”

He snorted in response. “A childish accusation. To obey your king  _is_  to serve him.”

She regretted the next retort as soon as it fell from her lips. “Does ‘obey’ mean the same thing for your men? Perhaps they've spread their legs for you, too?”

Stannis spun on his heel to tower over her, and for a moment, she thought he might strike her. He simply clenched his fists, however, stormy eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, my lady. Equal to a man? Yes, you are quite capable. But there is one fact you overlook.” Her resolve began to crumble under his iron gaze. “You are not a man. You threw away the possibility of being treated as such the moment you came to my bed. Do not delude yourself into thinking otherwise.”

Her scarlet eyes shone with indignant tears. “How could I, when I carry a  _bastard_ — "

He finally grabbed her arm hard enough to leave bruises. “Bastard or not,” he said evenly, “it is innocent, and you've no voice in the matter. I can assure you, you go against my command—commit any injustice—you will regret the day you set foot in Westeros.” With that he shoved her away from him and stalked to the window. “Leave.”

Melisandre stared at his retreating back in fury, bringing a pale hand up to her aching arm. Her words had struck a chord in him, evidently. 

_Good. Let him be as angry as I._

She wanted nothing more than to slink away and escape to her rooms, but she would not give him that satisfaction. Instead she marched loudly from his chamber, a violent flurry of red, and for good measure, she slammed the door on her way out.

_By R’hllor, Dragonstone would know her wrath that night!_

* * *

“My lady?” Selyse examined the woman sitting across from her. “Are you quite yourself?”

Melisandre moved food about her plate restlessly, feeling less interested in her meal than usual. There was a fire in her, a heat and sustenance already provided by R'hllor, such that she never need worry about hunger or sleep or mortality ever again. But no one knew that. No one _need_ know that.

Besides, things seemed to be changing with each passing day, the elements and her own humanity gnawing more insistently at her. Melisandre glanced down at her lap, trying to ignore the nagging ache that had begun in her belly. _Was it hunger?_   She'd nearly forgotten its torturous embrace.

_Never mind it,_ she told herself, quelling the memory to refocus on the queen. “I am quite well, thank you, Your Grace.” When Selyse’s frown did not fade, the priestess forced a smile. They were dining together—fortunately, without the presence of the king. It had been several weeks since that particular encounter, and she was thoroughly uninterested in conversing with him any time soon. Her hope was that he would sulk about the issue— _as he did everything else_ —and eventually give in to her original suggestion. She was anxious to deal with the matter and get off the island as she had planned. Stagnation was a dreadful feeling, perhaps the worse feeling of all. And every moment that passed on Dragonstone was stagnant. Wasted. Bringing them all closer to the long night, and with nothing to show in preparation.

“I am glad to hear it. I confess, I even asked Stannis if you were unwell the other day.“

Melisandre tensed. “What did His Grace say?”

The queen chuckled mirthlessly, her sharp features lending no warmth to the action. “Very little, as usual. Which is why I thought to ask you personally.”

“I am grateful for Your Grace's concern.”

“But something is troubling you, is it not, my lady?”

The priestess set her utensils down warily. She was too honest and too weary to craft an elaborate lie. “Nothing to concern yourself with, my queen. A silly trepidation.” She knew more questions would follow, so she desperately thought of a diversion. “Though I should appreciate your prayers, if Your Grace would be so inclined.”

Selyse tilted her head. “Certainly.”

Melisandre smiled and began picking at her food anew. Perhaps her conversation with the king could not wait as long as she had hoped.

As it were, she found him in his study that evening. The colours of the fire played harshly across his features as he brooded over his desk. She thought silently that he looked too lifeless, too stoic and unmoving, like the old sept statues had looked, weeping stone beneath crumbling paint and rusting jewels. _Think well of it and not as an omen; was not R'hllor pleased with such offerings?_

He finally glanced up at her, startled. “My lady?”

"Forgive my intrusion, Sire." Melisandre walked about the room for a moment, her crimson robes seeming to weigh her down and anchor her to the cold stone floor.

"What is it?"

She turned bluntly to face him. “Already the queen questions me, and apparently you as well. Have you given the matter any more thought?”

Stannis sighed, laying down his quill to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A great many thoughts.”

“And?”

He looked up sharply at her. “If you think I’ll change my mind about that particular question, you are mistaken, my lady.”

_He’ll come around_ , she told herself.  _He must. Be patient_. “Then what have been your conclusions otherwise?”

Stannis was grinding his teeth, and for a moment she thought he might not answer. He stood abruptly, throwing a tall, looming shadow across the floor. “The damage is done.”

“There are options, as I have suggested,” Melisandre reminded smoothly.

The king watched her for a moment, and she decided that any other person might have squirmed under that scrutinizing gaze. His tone was more flat than angry, however. “Do you truly think that an option?”  _Clearly I do, stubborn man_. Stannis shook his head. “You know you are above that, my lady. Despite your birth, you are no common woman. And if you were—even Robert did not kill his baseborn bastards. Ned Stark did not. Nor will I. Certainly not one of noble bearing.”

_There goes my plan for the little Storm,_ she thought _._  Melisandre exhaled forcefully, glancing about the musty space to ensure no one was lingering about. “I am lowborn…”

“It makes no difference. You are called by a title now.”

“A false title, Sire— "

"I gave you that _false title_. Do you reject your king's favour?"

Her red eyes locked stubbornly upon the leaping flames in the corner of the room. "I doubt I shall ever understand Westerosi men and their precious honour,” she muttered, moving to take refuge in the hearth. Her words fell softly into the fire. “You were different…you always placed your duty above that pride. Until now.”

“My _pride?”_   he spat. “You think siring a bastard brings me anything but shame?”

“Then why abandon your duty for it?”

“My mistakes are my responsibility.”

Melisandre turned and looked at him pointedly. “Is it so simple? Truly?” Stannis scowled, but she did not back down. “My king…you are chosen for more than this. You did not ask for greater burdens...you must bear them all the same. The flames do not lie. You've seen your great destiny. You know your place in this world— ”

“Do you know yours?” It was a retort as well as a warning. 

The red priestess drifted toward him, silks rustling, voice calming. “My place is always by your side.”

He spread his hands out mockingly. “And still you beg me to pursue your own plans?”

Melisandre hesitated. “Sometimes,” she started carefully, “we must walk on our own to serve one another…” Stannis said nothing for a long moment.  _By the look on his face, he still thinks I am abandoning him_. She walked cautiously closer to him, laying her heated hand on his arm. “In any case, it is only a short separation, my king.”

“Perhaps.” He pulled away from her grasp absent-mindedly. And Melisandre was surprised, for he had never done that before. "You are free to  _walk_  wherever you so choose. But not while we deal with this…” 

_Mistake,_  she finished silently, wincing at the dull thought.  _It is black and white to him._ _As it is to me, but in a different way._ Melisandre sighed and followed him to the window. “Then what shall we do, Your Grace?”

It was a fair question. Dragonstone was at a crossroads, and without Robert's bastard to sacrifice, she feared they would never move forward. Queen Selyse would be of no help in that regard, nor any of his knights—not even the queen’s men, with all their newfound devotion to R'hllor.

Ser Davos was quite possibly the best hope, but he was imprisoned for his unjust attempts against her. Not that she truly wanted to follow his counsel, but Stannis trusted him, and perhaps he could inspire her king back into action.

“We’ll reconvene Small Council on the morrow.”

“We?”

“Ser Davos will be released. I’ll hear no complaints about it.”

_Ah._ Melisandre resisted the urge to make humour, choosing instead to nod solemnly. The austere king moved restlessly to his desk, and evidently that was a kind of dismissal. She shifted reluctantly from the fire. “And our private matter? You say there is nothing to be decided, yet you have pondered it for weeks.”

He clenched his jaw. “You'll bear it. Which part of that was unclear?” The words felt like a blow to her chest.

“A great deal," she said incredulously. "Am I to hide the fact? What will happen to it?” 

“You’ll not be able to hide it, after a certain point,” he said dryly. "Discretion is of course necessary." She saw Stannis run a hand over his eyes. "But sooner or later, there will be another Storm in this world…”

* * *

_Three of Your Grace's ships require new sails, the repairs requiring no less than five—_

She shifted and attempted to discern the male voices down the hall as the young Maester examined her. The king’s, she could hear, and that of Ser Davos. Discussing their upcoming voyage to the Wall.

_I should be out there, advising my king. That is my place._  Instead she was shut up in a dark room like some fragile maiden. Melisandre tensed as a hand probed her middle, clinical and polite. A burning sensation spread through her womb as the pressure increased.

The voices drew closer to her chamber door and then parted ways. A hesitant knock came as little Devan Seaworth peeked his brown head in, eyes averted to the floor. “Are you finished, Maester? His Grace is waiting.” 

Melisandre made a noise of amusement.  _Impatient after standing outside my door for five seconds_.

Maester Pylos nodded, gathering his tools and avoiding the red woman as she righted her robes. The young man was no friend to her, she knew, most likely because he was successor to Maester Cressen, the very man who had failed to poison her. Still, even Ser Davos had learned to accept her place by the king’s side; Pylos was no exception. “My lady,” he nodded, and she thanked him as he took his leave of her, prepared to address the king in the corridor.

The priestess suppressed a sigh as the burning pain abated. She tightened the red silks about her body, moving quickly to the fire. The wind was turning cooler every day, and she felt restless despite the renewal of Dragonstone in the past months, with the swift progress of her king’s cause.  _The fire is burning low_ , she noted. She would have the servants tend to it that evening.

He entered her chamber without warning. Neither of them had patience for the details of etiquette. Still, she forced herself to turn away from the fire. “Good morrow, Your Grace.” 

Stannis ignored the greeting. “Maester Pylos confirmed it."

“Yes.” He nodded slightly, moving to sit heavily at her table. She joined him after a moment. “Do your knights know? Ser Onions?”

The king snorted at the jape and drummed his fingers against the table, gaze set on the window. “No.”

“The queen?”

Stannis finally stopped his incessant tapping, shooting an accusatory look at her. “Not yet. I thought perhaps you had told her this time, too.” Melisandre frowned slightly, and he sighed. “I spoke with her the other week. She said she knew…about our…. When you accompanied me in the Stormlands.”

_'When you accompanied me in the Stormlands'_ evidently meant _when we openly shared a soldier's tent for months._

The priestess raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I told her. Was I wrong?”

“Such matters need not be discussed.”

“I apologize. Queen Selyse wished to know how you fared during the siege.”

"Clearly I fared well until the Blackwater, what else should she desire to know?"

"If Your Grace had been finding sleep, and eating properly, and if I prayed over you each night. I told her all, including our spiritual consummations."

That seemed to make Stannis desperately uncomfortable. He watched her carefully for a moment, then turned his attention back to the window. “She was not upset,” he confided. His voice was distant. “I swore vows to her, when I was half a boy and half a man, promised to honour her despite all. Yet she said—she wept with joy, that you gave me…. And now….” He grit his teeth and looked back at her. “Tell me. Will she still be joyful when she sees the reminder of my sin, hidden away in some minor stronghold? What lies will you spin this time, to make her accept our treachery?”

_It was your idea, not mine, you obstinate man._ Melisandre sat very calm. “What I said was no lie. It was an act done in service to the Lord of Light.”

To her shock, the corner of his mouth turned up. “You don’t believe that yourself, my lady."

She felt irritated that he was questioning her faith, so she rose to return to the fire. “I will speak to her again, if that is your desire.”

“I think that best. However, I think it wise if I am present as well.”

A scarlet eyebrow lifted. “As you wish, Sire."

This was going to be an unfortunate encounter.

* * *

After the servants had been dismissed that evening, Melisandre knocked on the queen’s chamber door, the king lingering behind her. “Come in,” the unpleasant voice called. Melisandre entered calmly, as she had done a hundred times before.

“My lady,” the queen greeted. She was still dressed in her grey day gown, high-necked velvet and a brocade skirt which did nothing to soften her harsh face or prominent Florent ears.

“Thank you for receiving me so late, Your Grace. I feared you'd not appreciate the informal visit.” Melisandre also feared the queen wouldn't appreciate the slight curve of her middle, but she kept that to herself. It was already more pronounced than she had anticipated, such that she began to think her sorcery might have worked after all. Her servants had certainly noticed the development, though they wisely said nothing.

"Your company is always welcomed, informal or not.” Selyse smiled her brittle smile. It was just then she noticed Stannis slinking gracelessly into her room as well. Ironically, the action was not so familiar to him as it was the priestess. “My lord husband,” she said in surprise.

“My lady,” he nodded. The gesture was forced.

The queen looked to Melisandre, slightly puzzled. “Won’t you sit, my lady? My lord?”

The priestess was about to accept the courtesy when Stannis shook his head. “That is unnecessary,” he interjected. Selyse lifted an eyebrow, but before she could fold her hands in front of her, Melisandre walked over and took them in her own.

“My queen…” _It must be done_. “There is joyful news.” She certainly didn’t feel joyful, but she knew she had to craft a careful picture. This whole household depended on her guidance, after all.That didn't stop Stannis from flinching when she spoke the words. “I will bear another servant of R'hllor.”

An unreadable emotion flashed across the queen’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a genuine smile. “A blessing from the Lord,” Selyse insisted, gripping the other woman’s hands. “I am gladdened to hear it.” The queen’s gaze flickered over to her husband. “And you'll bring it into the world soon?”

Melisandre hardly blinked. “Not as soon as the first, my queen. Several months.” Selyse seemed to sense that this experience was something quite different, and she pulled away hesitantly.

“But is that not…an inconvenient time, my lady?” She glanced at Stannis again, then back to Melisandre. “For what purpose is this servant meant? You are accompanying us to the Wall.”

“I am, Your Grace. We must trust in God’s timing.”

“As you say,” Selyse agreed uneasily. “This son will carry out His work?” There was an awkward pause.

Melisandre’s smile felt forced upon her lips. “In time, I’m sure.”

The room fell entirely silent then. Stannis—rather unhelpfully—began pacing the room in discomfort. The priestess shot him a lethal look.

She knew the queen respected her too much to say anything outright, but the tension was clear in the air. “In any case, it is a gift from R’hllor, and I am glad for it,” Selyse said slowly. Melisandre took this as her cue to retire for the evening, but stopped when the queen gave her a deliberate look. “Any life is a gift, so long as it’s conceived in service to the Lord.”

The priestess tilted her head. “Of course,” she murmured.

It wasn’t a lie. She and Stannis had followed the rituals, as it were. This child was not the fruit of that devotion, only an unwanted repercussion—but Selyse needn’t know that.

“Good even, Your Graces.” Melisandre could tell that Stannis wanted to escape the room as well, but his wife would have a word with him, no doubt. The priestess stole out the door with burning cheeks. 

Her heart was pounding, so she did not bother to linger outside the door. She was above that. In any case, the queen's disappointed gaze had said enough, and for some reason, it cut into her like a knife. Melisandre did hear their quarrel as she walked to her chambers, however. Try as she might to ignore it, the queen's voice followed her far down the corridor. 

“Have you learned nothing from Robert's mistakes?” she was demanding. “You can hide a bastard behind walls, but no shame is concealed from the Lord.”

* * *

The queen's words rang through Melisandre's head, even as chilly wind whipped about the ship’s deck.

_No shame is concealed from the Lord._

Nor anyone else, it would seem. Those in court were well aware of her condition by now, though the king made no formal pronouncement, and they all simply danced around the issue. It was a disquieting notion to most men. Half of Westeros mistrusted her; the people needed no more reason to be wary of her influence over Stannis. In truth she had no designs on the Iron Throne, no interest in the Westerosi concept of power, and regarding the most extreme concern—she certainly harboured no desire to displace Shireen. But they did not know that.

The princess herself had every right to be suspicious, yet with her young age and sweet disposition, she seemed the only enthusiastic one on Dragonstone.

_"What are you carrying?"_

_Melisandre froze while lighting candles around the chamber. When the queen had suggested she speak to Shireen about R'hllor, this was not what she had in mind. "How do you mean, princess?"_

_The young girl fiddled with the lace hem of her nightclothes. "My lady, I heard shouting the other night, after I was playing in Aegon's Garden. Mother said you are carrying…" She trailed off, likely suspecting the words were inappropriate. "But Patches said…if father made it too, won't it be my— "_

_The priestess felt her face burning once more. "Do you believe all the twisted songs that fool sings?" Shireen's gaze was unblinking, open and clear as the sky. Melisandre had to remind herself of the child's kind nature, that she was innocent of the cruel gossip swirling about Dragonstone. "You are right to be curious," Melisandre smoothly corrected. "I was much like you when I was young, lost in stories and dreams…only I wasn't a princess!"_

_"But you have one in your belly," Shireen suggested hopefully._

_The candle slipped unceremoniously from Melisandre's hands._

She could no longer ignore the fact that she carried the dishonour of her sin within her— _no shame was concealed from the Lord,_ after all—but she still prayed fervently, asking Him to forgive that fortnight of weakness with the king. Lifting up Azor Ahai reborn was her only goal, had always been her goal, would always  _be_  her goal.

_This affliction is a minor obstacle. Nothing more._

Even now, with Stannis’s army well on their way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the matter growing more obvious by the day, she kept her eyes on that original duty. She felt little more than apathy for the creature in her womb. The whispers followed her everywhere she went, and she was painfully aware that her scarlet silks no longer disguised the curve of her belly, but judging stares mattered not. 

Melisandre watched the grey waves crash over each other, praying only that her king would be victorious in the end, as she had seen in her flames. In the middle of her prayer the Onion Knight approached her, distaste in his eyes. She pulled her robes discreetly about herself to prepare for the encounter.

“We’re holding Small Council in the upper cabin this evening,” he said simply.

“For what purpose?”

Davos frowned. “There’s much to be discussed for the upcoming campaign. Plans for battle, and Lord Axell must needs finish preparations for the household of the queen and princess. We must strategise the northern regions, the Night’s Watch…” He kicked a stone over the ship’s edge. “Much to be done.”

Melisandre nodded. “Stannis will defeat these wildlings with little effort. Have faith, Ser Davos.”

He glanced sharply at her. In all honesty she was surprised he was speaking to her at all.  _Stannis told him to_ , she realized _. Of course_.

After Davos’s attempt to assassinate her, they rarely acknowledged each other’s presence. She did not begrudge his actions. Men feared what they did not understand. And Davos was a man who had suffered his fair share of losses at the Blackwater, as she'd offered her condolences for in the dungeons. He had every right to be bitter; instead he served his king with unfailing loyalty. Melisandre respected him for that, and thus his obvious desire to avoid her.

Still, she was curious. “You should know I spoke on your behalf, Ser. But what promise did the queen's men extract from you, to finally get you out of that cell?”

Ser Davos had begun to turn away, but stopped with a short laugh. “It was the king himself. He said I must never raise a hand to you again.”

“And that amused you?”

“Not at the time,” he admitted. “But it does now.” Melisandre raised her eyebrows, so he continued, “Doesn’t take a learned man to know they’re empty words. You’re not so easily threatened by men.” He met her gaze steadily. “That was when you told him, wasn’t it?”

“Told him what?”

“That you would make another demon.”

The priestess’s smile fell. It was his turn to lift an eyebrow, but his tone was uncharacteristically hostile. “Oh, I took my vow. I’ll not plunge my dagger into your belly, though nothing’d give me more pleasure. Wouldn't kill a shadow anyway, would it? But tell me. Who’ll be the victim this time? You expect to slay the Boltons with your sorcery? I know what you’re thinking, the secrets you hide behind your bloody smile. I’m a smuggler, my lady, and you’re not nearly as veiled as you think you are. You assume correctly, though. Stannis would be mighty pleased if you secured the North for him.” Davos shook his head bitterly, looking out to the waves. “If only he realized the cost.”

_He knows the cost, you fool. Give him credit for his own choices._  Melisandre forced her expression not to betray her ire. “It’s no demon,” she said simply.

Davos snorted. “You feel some kind of motherhood for your blood magic, that it?”

Her own voice cut through the salty air like a knife. “You misunderstand. It is  _not a shadow_.” He said nothing, only stared in growing horror. “Perhaps that’s worse, in your eyes,” she observed sadly. “You are a simple man, Ser Davos, but you have a wife. Don’t you recognize my condition, as it was with your own sons?” Apparently not, or if he had made the connection, he probably wrote it off as a different kind of sorcery than the first. She watched the wheels turn frantically in his mind as he considered the possible implications. “I carry only a bastard,” she confirmed without pride. “But it is the king's.”

Melisandre almost added that he needn’t worry about her intentions, as she had a thousand times before, but it would mean nothing—absolutely nothing to a man who despised her. And so she turned her gaze back to the sea, so dark it seemed a void. “That’s why Stannis ordered you not to raise a hand to me,” she murmured. 

At that exact moment, she was startled by a strange vision in that bleak water, strong and clear despite the lack of a flame. It was a girl…no, a young woman, and she was staining her hair black as pitch. 

_Who is she?_

Melisandre vaguely registered Davos retreating. _Nothing has changed at all with that man._ He was the same wretched soul who had washed back to Dragonstone, staggering deliriously with his Lyseni dirk, plotting with other men to waylay her and stab her in the dark. How he had prayed for the Mother to help him, to protect his king, to save them all from the red harlot! His footsteps fell rapidly against the damp wood now, certain and clear-minded. But for once, she had no desire to persuade him to her side.

As she stood over the edge of the world, the knight's hatred grew distant and weak, the queen's words lost to the wind. Only a mockingbird's voice remained, and Melisandre understood her song, though it came from a thousand worlds away in the Vale.

_Out of the ash I rise with my red hair,_   _and I eat men like air._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Verse credit throughout: Sylvia Plath_


	2. PART TWO | The Bitter North

It was very cold. 

Melisandre knew that—not because she really felt it herself, but because she saw Stannis’s men shivering in their boots. Soldiers from the Crownlands and Stormlands, they were no match for the bitter North, not with winter coming any month. R'hllor be praised that they were full of strength and energy, well-fed and clothed, and their march from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to Castle Black had not been long.

Riding next to the king, she’d been bundled in her own heavy robes, but not for  _her_ benefit. No, R’hllor kept her warm with His presence alone. It was the unborn creature that required such absurd accommodations, as the Lord’s force did not seem to nourish it as it did her, and none of her dwindling supplies seemed to affect it either. In fact, it seemed to be displacing the Lord’s fire in her womb. Melisandre felt things she hadn’t felt in a very long time—hunger, nausea, fatigue, a vague sense of chill.

It all felt so painfully  _human._

Not that she need worry about her power just now. Their victory over the wildlings had been simple—even if Stannis had forbidden her to ride at his side—culminating in the execution of the deserter king of the Night's Watch. She'd hoped to smuggle him out for Rattleshirt, to spare Mance and send him south to save the Stark girl they all spoke of. Alas, her sorcery was far too weak to conjure a glamour. And it would have been a very dangerous thing to deceive Stannis Baratheon. The last thing she wished to do was go behind his back in such a way. Disappointed as she was, the Wall's men at least seemed grateful for their assistance in crushing the wild people north of the Wall. 

She agreed with her king that the brothers in black were dirty thieves, for the most part, but she saw shrewd men in their midst too. Jon Snow was amongst them. He’d intervened in the burning of the King-Beyond-the-Wall, which annoyed Stannis, but it was clear that both kings respected the boy. The Bastard of Winterfell knew who the real enemy was, and Melisandre believed he would prove quite valuable in time.

For now matters were as quiet as the king could hope, though that did little to soothe his stormy tempers. It was a small blessing Selyse had been left behind at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. _The king is concerned for the safety of his kin,_ Melisandre told herself, _surely he was quite unwilling to house them amongst the criminals of the Night’s Watch._  But the castle whispered that he wanted rid of his homely wife. 

Cruel words, but what else could they think? Stannis had brought another woman with him, riding protected and bright and beautiful as a queen. Not to mention that the threat of winter and battle would be enough to keep Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen at the Wall once he'd departed for his northern campaign. They would relocate to the Nightfort with their host for protection, once it had been revitalised to the king's standards. 

And she? She avoided the question, for now.

Melisandre walked over the creaking wood of the dark castle, paying little attention to the icy wind as it howled about her. She'd done so every chance she had since they arrived, traveling far from the Castle grounds some afternoons. On those occasions she always spied Val pacing the roof of Hardin's Tower. _Do you enjoy your new prison, princess?_ Perhaps they were not so different after all, she and this wildling girl. _Are we not both caged into a title of womanhood, kept as a valuable asset to Stannis Baratheon?_  

The priestess wandered atop the Wall other evenings, eating little and sleeping less. She knew the creature required more sustenance than she, but she was far too persistent to rest. Sometimes she even felt it quicken in protest.  _An inconvenience._ She ignored it to focus on more important things. Her visions were vibrant here, despite her dwindling sorcery. Melisandre saw that mockingbird ever more often, and the deeper they travelled into the North, the more intense the images became. Sometimes she glimpsed a man with her, slight and cunning, the two of them conspiring late into the night in some distant castle.

_"The time is not now, sweet Alayne," he would say, folding his hands neatly. "'Lord Protector of the Vale' means little until those lords who stand in our way…are out of our way. Only then can we look North."_

_The young woman stopped pacing, her pretty features calm and collected. "But soon?"_

_His smile did not reach his cold eyes. "Soon," he acquiesced._

Melisandre wanted to question Stannis about the identity of these people, but knew not what might come of it. So she kept silent. In any case she did not understand why she should see such things, with her king's most critical time upon them. 

Every now and then she would pass a brother of the Watch on her long walks, breaking her out of her reverie. Having endured the distasteful looks of noblemen and their ladies at Dragonstone, she dreaded their reactions. But these common men seemed not to detect her condition at all beneath a priestess's robes. She intended to keep it that way.

For the time being they acknowledged her with a leering grin or a shaky nod.  _Fine,_ she thought,  _let them want me, let them fear me._ Intrigue only strengthened her image. The illusion.  _Power resides, after all, where men believe it resides._ And a woman with power was a woman with a voice. 

It was dusk when Melisandre found herself climbing the King’s Tower. The guards said nothing as she approached his rooms, only opened the door for her. 

“My lady,” Stannis frowned, “you have been about in this darkness? It is late.”

“So it is,” she murmured. The king’s frown deepened, but he waved lingering knights away, waiting until they had closed the door behind them.

“Are you in need of something?” She was, but she didn’t know how to explain in a way that he might understand. A man like Stannis had little patience for her strange tempers, which only fluctuated as her body grew.

“Nothing for my accommodations, Sire.”

"You find your apartments suitable, then?"

"Quite suitable, my king." _Shouldn't you know? They are quite close to yours…close enough to monitor._ Melisandre walked calmly to the table, pouring him a goblet of water. “Drink,” she insisted, handing it to him.

Stannis accepted the goblet in surprise, though he didn’t partake of it. “You are in a peculiar mood this evening.”

The priestess shrugged slightly, smoothing the snow from her copper hair. “Am I not a peculiar woman?” That drew a short laugh from him. He set the water down to flex his sword hand absent-mindedly, then shrugged out of his black leather jerkin, leaving him in nothing but shirtsleeves and breeches. She watched his movements from the corner of her eye, relieved to have caught him in a pleasant mood.

“For what purpose have you come tonight, my lady?” 

Melisandre wasted no time in showing him, hands pushing his lean form against the table—and with not a little force. He groaned at the ferocity of her kiss, his own hands grappling to find her waist and hold her away from him.

“What’s gotten into you, woman?”

“A thousand ideas,” she purred against his jaw. “I’ve missed you.”  _I need you_ , she added silently. He didn't seem to understand, so her lips traced a burning path from his jaw to his ear. "So many months we've journeyed, so long without your company…"  _Please, want me too.  
_

Stannis still seemed genuinely confused. “We are together each day.”

Melisandre pulled back, exasperated, and finally dropped the loose robe from her shoulders. She wore no gown beneath. “Not like this,” she whispered, feeling oddly anxious. His eyes fell over her bare form in growing comprehension and desire. 

“No," he agreed, pulling her flush against him. "Not like this.” 

* * *

 Alayne Stone was always poised, gloved hands folded carefully in her lap.

"He'll improve over time," said Petyr, the hint of a smirk at his mouth.

She raised an eyebrow and pretended to watch as little Sweetrobin was struck down—yet again—in combat practice. In truth she was observing Lord Baelish from the corner of her eye, memorizing that sharp grey gaze, the lips which always felt calculating in their kisses, the mockingbird glinting with sunlight at his neck. Further down; the way his slight shoulders made a straight column down his back, the fine clothing which enveloped him like a second skin. She took in each detail of him, storing everything away for when it would truly matter. 

"He'll be your husband some day," Petyr was promising. "You'll be Lady of the Vale, Wardenness of the East. And then..." He trailed off, studying her reaction.  _Yes, and then, my lord?_ Littlefinger always spoke in the future sense. Always planning. 

_Always plotting._

Oh, she knew. That silly, romantic girl had died long ago. _  
_

_You've been waiting for this your whole life, haven't you, my lord?_ Alayne allowed him to wait a bit longer, smiling as the breeze kissed her cheeks. The Arryn sigil caught her eye, flying proud above the Eyrie. 

"As high as honour," she smiled.

* * *

The priestess blinked. She was no longer in the gusty Vale... _But where?_   Her eyes blinked again, taking note of the room. Even with a roaring fire, the air was frigid.

_Ah. The North._

Melisandre stretched upon the bed with a sigh, catching sight of her far-too-swollen abdomen.The wince that followed was not subtle enough.

"You are foolish."

"What— " she breathed, startled. Stannis seemed charmed by the furrow of her brow. 

"How do you doubt your beauty is anything but increased?"

"How do you make a compliment sound like an insult? It is a true talent, my king." 

"Woman," the king snorted, "The lines of your figure have changed… _you_  have not." 

Melisandre scowled harder. It was simply untrue. Their relations were tainted by a touch of anxiety these past weeks, as she fretted—though she'd never admit it—he might be as displeased with her body as she. In all truth, she didn't know if she was relieved or mortified when the king took to stroking the swell of her middle with a gentle hand. "You feel…" He seemed puzzled, somehow, as he ran his calloused hands and piercing blue gaze across her skin. Her breath would catch. _Does he know?_ To her immense relief, he always shook his head and dropped the subject. One night she even tried to hide her form behind a curtain of fiery hair, but he brushed it aside without breaking his rhythm inside her. "I like you this way," he said bluntly. Her skin had burned crimson from head to toe.

Secretly, however, she cherished his rare praise and affection. R'hllor knew she tried to remember those words, tried to appear assured whenever he spread her out on the finest furs. But it simply wasn't as easy to feign confidence as before. Not with this condition twisting her into an emotional fool. 

"I  _feel_  changed," she said glumly. 

Stannis didn't seem to hear her. He was seated on the edge of the bed, righting himself as if propriety was absolutely crucial at that moment.  _It makes him more comfortable,_ she reminded herself.  _Leave him be._ She sighed, allowing the soft sounds of the fire to lull her into a peaceful state. 

“Does it pain you?” he asked suddenly. She cracked an eye open.

“My king?”

“The babe. You said you feel...” He waved his hand absently, still fussing with his clothing. They might as well be discussing the weather.

“Traveling was unpleasant, at times,” she admitted. “But the Lord lightens my burdens.”

He chuckled. “You’ll not feel so light when your time comes.”

Melisandre grimaced. “Perhaps, but no one need witness that. You’ll be gone for Winterfell, by then.”

Stannis looked at her oddly. “I won’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

A thousand puzzled thoughts flew through her mind. “Sire, I do not understand. Why are you delaying your campaign?”

The king ran a hand wearily over his face. “Sometimes I wonder,” he muttered.

Melisandre sat up with some difficulty. “My king, you cannot mean to wait on my...condition.”

“You think I’d leave before you give birth?”

The priestess blinked. “Why not? There’s no need to make a fuss about it.” Stannis stood abruptly. “I see,” she observed dryly, watching as he walked to the table. “Now you are angry?”

“It’s my  _child_.” 

Melisandre froze for a moment. He'd never truly spoken the words aloud. "So it is." She brought her pale legs to the edge of the bed.

“And yours.”

Her gaze turned hard. “What of it?”

“You despise it,” he accused flatly.

“And? You love this creature?”

Stannis closed his eyes for a moment. “It— matters not. This is Westeros, not your Eastern cities. I have a duty to protect my kin, legitimate or not. My allegiance is first to the realm, but without caring for my own house, how can I rule a continent? Lords don’t back a king without honour.” He shook his head. “Unless he’s already on the throne,” he mused bitterly. 

In the middle of his lecture she had risen to her feet, pulling on her red robes. She couldn’t tolerate the sight of her body any longer. “Shall I apologize?”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“Clearly I have, Sire. I’m not meant to be a mother.” She tilted her head, studying him coolly. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He looked at her as if she disgusted him. “I’m not  _asking_  you to be a mother. Pass it off to a wet nurse, then ship it off to a maester.” He smiled mockingly. “Or a septa, though I doubt  _that_  would please you much.” Melisandre's eyes darkened as she turned away from him, but he caught her arm. “You’re no mother, no. But you are with child, as it is, and you must bear that duty.”

“You just said— "

“And I meant it. You need not raise it, or even see it after it's born, but that doesn’t mean you can disregard it right now.” He hesitated a moment more, then grit his teeth in resignation. “I’m not blind, Melisandre. You’ve been careless.”  _So there is the accusation._

She raised an eyebrow angrily. “I have carried it for months! That is more than you’ve done!”

“Was that too much to ask? The most natural thing in the world for a woman, the highest honour, and you act as if it repulses you.”

“What would you _have_ _me do?”_ she fumed, failing to keep her composure. “Shut myself away like a Westerosi lady, quiet and proper?”

“That would be a start.”

Anger boiled within her veins, and her mind warned her not to speak thus, but she ignored her better judgment. “And after that? Perhaps you’d like me to obsess over bearing sons? To be more like your queen?”

Regret set in then, in the tense silence that followed. When the king spoke again, she knew that the conversation was over. “You are careless with your words as well,” Stannis said, and he was clenching his jaw so hard, she swore she felt the pain herself. “I will assume you are simply tired, my lady, and bid you good even. After all, you must be easily fatigued, in your present  _state_.”

Melisandre felt as if he had struck her, but she hid behind a bitter smile. “Your Grace,” she said sweetly, making her way to the door. 

 _The highest honour?_ _Very well, my king. I shall show you a proud woman._

* * *

“My lady,” the newly-elected lord commander greeted her, then halted in his tracks. She followed his dark eyes as they took in her form—all of her form—for the first time. “Forgive me,” Jon recovered, looking away. “I did not realize…”

Melisandre smiled calmly. She hardly winced at the stares anymore. The day had come when she finally left her robes behind, choosing to wear only a silk gown around Castle Black. Servants had altered the bodices to allow for her rapidly expanding midsection, but otherwise, they were just as red and striking as always.

Exposing herself was a painful experience. It was also a necessary act of defiance, an act of liberation. She darted about the castle all night and day, doing whatever she so pleased, even leading the nightfires amongst the soldiers' tents in her uncovered state. The more her sorcery waned, the more acutely she felt the chill—but so long as the heads continued to turn, it would be worth it. 

“Yes, I daresay the king prefers discretion with the matter,” she laughed. Jon Snow cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond delicately.

“Are you not cold, my lady?”

The priestess silently commended his tact in changing the subject. “My faith keeps me warm, Jon Snow, and a holy fire lives within me.”  _Not anymore_ _,_ her mind argued, but she reached for his hand anyway, making sure Stannis’s men saw. “Here,” she offered, bringing it to her pale cheek. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Justin Massey stifling a wide grin. At his side Ser Richard wore an impressive frown.

Lord Snow pulled his hand away after a moment, clearly uneasy. “But let us escape the cold,” she suggested, slipping her slender arm through his. “His Grace will expect you in your chambers soon.” 

As they walked together across the training yard, her attempts at banter were interrupted by yet another vision. It was the mockingbird— _Alayne,_  she corrected—beneath the direwolf banner.  _This is strange._ She attempted to make out the rest of the surroundings.

 _Snow, grey skies, some ugly heart tree. A boy and a girl. Further down, a younger boy, lean and dark._  

Melisandre frowned.  _Perhaps…_  

"Have you a sister red of hair, Lord Snow?"

Jon froze, looking at her warily. "The eldest daughter of my father." The priestess's frown deepened, but she urged him to walk on with her. The lord commander was suspicious now. "What do you know of Sansa?" 

"A trueborn Stark. She was prisoner to the Lannisters, yes?" 

"Was?" Jon stopped again at the base of the stairs, face lined with concern. "She's still in King's Landing."

"I've seen her elsewhere." 

He considered this for a moment, then narrowed those black eyes at her. "Forgive me, my lady, I don't trust in  _visions_  from the fire." Melisandre said nothing, only lifted her eyebrows. The provocation was enough. "Where?" he finally demanded.

Her back ached as they climbed the stairs to his corridor, much to her irritation. "I've seen her amongst the snows, my lord." The color drained from his face.

"She's in Winterfell?"

"No," Melisandre sang. She inclined her head toward his door. "But she will be. Lord Snow." 

He was still staring at her in disbelief, but he nodded, escaping gladly to his rooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the king and his Hand approaching. They stopped talking when they saw her lingering outside Jon's chambers. Davos would not greet her, she knew that all too well, and Stannis was only glaring at her exposed form, so she took the initiative. “Your Grace, Ser Davos. An agreeable day, is it not?”

Stannis grit his teeth, the red-gold spires of his crown glinting as if in warning. “Terribly cold, my lady.”

The priestess beamed in response. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“So it would seem.” 

Ser Davos shifted, clearly enjoying the fact that Stannis’s anger was directed at her. She tilted her head coyly. “The lord commander and I just returned from a rather pleasurable walk, as it were. He waits for you now.”

“That so?” Stannis asked dryly. “And you plan to keep roaming about the castle like that?”

“I had planned to, yes.”

"An unpleasant sight for all," Davos quipped. She tried to ignore the cutting remark, but Stannis shot him a lethal glare.

"Open your mouth again, smuggler, I'll shorten your tongue too." A terse moment passed before the king turned back to her. “I have matters to discuss with Lord Snow. Then I should like a word with you.”

 _Oh, I imagine you would._ “As you wish.” Melisandre bowed her head and forced a smile, moving aside as Jon's grey-haired steward opened the door for them. The Onion Knight glanced at her midsection with distaste as he walked past, but wisely said nothing more.  _It is unfair I am excluded,_ she thought bitterly.Once the door had been closed behind them, she lingered by the walls to hear.

“Lord Commander,” Stannis was greeting Jon. “Have you considered my offer?”

Jon hesitated. “I have…and I thank you for it. You do me great honour. All my life I wanted to be Jon Stark.”  _Ah, the king’s bargain of legitimacy._

“Say the word and you will be.”

“But I have to refuse you. I’m Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. My place is here.” _Oh, these men and their prized honor. Jon is evidently no better._

Stannis tried again. “I’m giving you the chance to avenge your family. Take back the castle where you grew up…rule the North.”

“I wish I could fight beside you. Believe me, I do. But I swore a sacred vow at the godswood.” Melisandre sneered again.  _Silly words in front a tree, and now you’re cursed to rot in the snow when Winterfell needs you._  “I pledged my life to the Night’s Watch.”

“You’re as stubborn as your father,” Stannis retorted. _You’re one to talk_ _._ “And as honourable.”

“I can imagine no higher praise.”

“I didn’t mean it as praise. Honour got your father killed."  _Thoughtful as always, Stannis._  He was evidently growing impatient with Jon’s refusal. "But if your mind’s made up, I won’t try and dissuade you.” She heard movement inside the chamber.

“May I ask your Grace, how long you plan to stay at Castle Black?”  _Good question, Lord Commander._

Stannis was thoroughly offended. “Are you bored of us already?”

“You saved us from Mance Rayder’s army. We will never forget that. But it’s a question of survival. The Night’s Watch can’t continue to feed your men and the wildling prisoners indefinitely.” Lord Snow chose his next words very carefully. “Two months more, it is possible. But winter is coming.” 

_Clever boy. More clever than I thought._

“I know it,” Stannis admitted after a moment. “We march when our affairs are in order. It shouldn’t be much longer we burden you.” She heard his footsteps fall toward the door, but Jon was not finished.

“Your Grace...forgive me if I speak plainly.”  _Careful, now, Jon._  The boy was quick to elaborate. “You are welcome to stay until the Lady Melisandre’s lying-in." She inhaled sharply, listening as the footsteps ceased. 

"How very charitable of you," Stannis drawled.

The tension in the room was palpable, her own heart pounding madly in her ears, but the bastard commander did not seem apprehensive. “And afterward, may I assume she’ll be traveling to the Nightfort with the queen and princess's retinue?” She released her breath at that, scoffing silently.  _If the king stays until…it is born, I may as well join him on his march. Yet Snow suggests he leave me behind._

_Again._

“That is the most likely course of action,” Stannis said shortly. 

 _By R'hllor_   _!_

She had little time for outrage, however, as Dolorous Edd was opening the door. Melisandre scrambled away from the chamber wall as quickly as she could in her condition. Thankfully only the king came out, but his gaze was stern as he towered over the steward and spotted her a ways down the corridor. “My lady. To my chambers.” She wanted to confront him about what she had just heard, but he would be cross—more so than he already was—that she’d been eavesdropping. 

Her heart pounded furiously in her chest as they trudged through snow to the studded gates. Stannis took her elbow when they began to climb the tower stairs, but the priestess wrenched herself away. "I am not an invalid," she muttered. Stannis did not appreciate this. Once they had reached his rooms, he intimidated his steward and guards away with a murderous look.

“You will put an end to this rash behavior. Now.”

The priestess folded her hands violently. “It seems I have offended you.”

“My men tell me you don’t eat, don’t sleep. Have you no shame?”

“Very little, Your Grace.” He stalked toward her, but she did not flinch, not even when spoke down to her coldly.

“It is time you acted appropriately. And you will, or on my honor, I  _will_  force you into confinement. Cover yourself when you go out. No more wandering around these men at night, these lands, as if you’re immune to any danger.”

Melisandre seethed at the floor. “Tell me, would you bother with these things were I not with child?”

“No. You’re quite adept on your own.”

There was a short silence, and then she laughed softly. “So that is it? Am I a  _vessel_  for something more important than myself?”

Stannis lifted an eyebrow. “If you wish to think of it that way.”

Her hand connected with his cheek before she even had time to process the insult. The sound resounded throughout the room. 

"You are in an hysteric state," he said carefully. Something snapped in her, and all regret was dashed out.

"How  _dare_  you— " 

"It is your condition which lowers you to this." 

"Oh, my actions are quite deliberate, I assure Your Grace." 

"Then I have tolerated your defiance far too long," he said, voice dangerously low. "You wish to be treated equal to my men? Take care. Next time I shall punish accordingly, as your rightful king."

"No,  _you_  take care!" Melisandre exploded. "I am not your subject, I am not your whore, I am the  _mother of your child."_ She leaned up so her face was very close to his."And make no mistake, you ridiculous man. You will treat me  _better_  than your knights."

Silence fell heavy upon them. Her red rage had begun to abate, leaving her uneasy. Stannis, on the other hand, seemed too shocked to respond.  _Lord of Light, protect me. I have pushed too far this time._ A tangled stream of Asshai'i and High Valyrian prayers ran through her mind, but he only stared at her with that blank expression.

"Yes, you are," he finally said.

"I-I…"

"You are the mother of my child." 

Now it was her turn to be stunned. "Yes," she managed. His eyes scrutinized her for a painful moment.

"And…have I not treated you as such?" he demanded. Melisandre opened her mouth, but little came out. She felt ashamed, somehow. 

"Please, I did not— " 

Stannis held a hand up, genuinely baffled. "No, do you think I assist  _Davos_  with his back pains? That I light a thousand candles in broad daylight for  _him_ , because the damned hearth isn't enough?" He caught sight of her grimacing. "Gods, what do you want from me, woman? Full servitude to your irrational whims? Even now, do I complain when you  _demand to be on top?"_

She flushed, utterly embarrassed. "Yes, actually— "

"Or when my men must find you goats in this wasteland, because you have such  _terrible cravings_  in the dead of night?"

"I— " Her eyebrows knit together defensively. "I told you. A lamb would have sufficed."

"Your bloody supper would have sufficed, but you destroyed  _that!"_   He imitated Melisandre's lilting accent.  _"Wouldn't this pigeon look better on fire, my king? I think it would."_

"That was one time," she insisted, cheeks burning.

The corner of his mouth twitched up. "And the next evening, when you sacrificed your sweet biscuit to the flames— "

"Please don't," she sulked. 

" _Don't?_ Then stop pitying yourself, Melisandre, you know very well I treat you like a— " 

He caught himself.  _Like a queen,_ she finished silently. It would have been an unfortunate choice of words. He shook his head instead. "You cannot exploit that excuse. It is you who push away special treatment."

“Because I do not want it," she admitted. "Not really."

“You’ve made that quite clear, my lady. Less clear is what you  _do_  want.”

Melisandre felt utterly exhausted. "It has ruined everything, Stannis, why can you not see that? My place is by your side, not in some castle with the women and children where I can do nothing.” He seemed slightly taken aback, so she blurted the accusation. “I  _heard_  you! You mean to leave me behind again while you feast your way through the North! Davos will be quite satisfied, will he not? He will be pleased I finally learned my place, and I fear...you will as well.”  _Stop acting so pathetic,_ she reproved herself, disgusted by the tears threatening to spill over.

“Woman,” he said firmly, and to her surprise he took her delicate face into his hands. “Naturally, the Nightfort seems a wise option. You'd be with my family, protected from most harm. It is generally inadvisable for women to accompany a military campaign.” She shot him a deadly look, and he snorted. “But you are no ordinary woman, I know it. For your sake we may discuss it.”

Melisandre sobered behind her tears, feeling ashamed of her outburst of emotion. “Very well.”

“Now,” he continued, “you will get these silly notions out of your head. I do not want you shut up in a castle, and I don’t want you to feign any affection for her.” Melisandre's brow furrowed _. Her?_ “Him or her," Stannis quickly corrected, but she had grown suspicious. "It," he snapped, then shook his head irately. "No matter. The only thing I ask, the only thing I have ever asked, is that you care for the babe whilst you carry it. I know you don’t want it. But you will do that much.” She searched his eyes for a moment.

“You speak of it as if it is so vital,” she said wearily. “Why?”

It was Stannis’s turn to sigh. “Bastard or not. It is still of higher standing than any other in the Seven bloody Kingdoms, save the princess.” 

She frowned. “I do not understand, Sire.”

“This child is descended from the rightful king of Westeros, and that is a position of great significance.”

“Robert’s bastards had little status…"

“I am not Robert,” he said flatly.  _Yes, we are aware._ The priestess was surprised to notice Stannis fidgeting with his gloves. "Melisandre, you should know…" He was watching her cautiously. "My lady wife and I discussed a great deal during our voyage."


	3. PART THREE | The Face of the Past

[ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/142305421364/each-night-he-walked-atop-the-wall-with-lady)

* * *

“Bastard.” Jon nearly slammed his fist onto his desk. “I’ll not give him a damn thing more.”

Samwell Tarley flinched, his moon-shaped face full of apprehension. “He’s Warden of the North, Jon.”

The lord commander sighed.  _I know it,_ he thought bitterly. It wasn’t the first time they'd had this conversation about the Boltons.

Jon signed the parchment with a rigid hand, throwing his quill down in disgust. It felt like a betrayal to his father, to Robb, each and every time he signed in favor of Roose Bolton’s demands.  _Warden of the North._ That title belonged to a Stark. The flayed man banner that flew above Winterfell brought unspeakable dishonour to his father’s name.

Sam gathered up the scrolls after a moment and made his way to the door, leaving Jon alone with his tumultuous thoughts. 

In truth there was another letter buried in the pile, an unusual letter which plagued his mind even more. It came from the Eyrie, oddly enough, sent by an unfamiliar raven for Jon's eyes alone. The scrawled words requested support should the armies of the Vale move North against the Boltons, hinting at the possibility of an alliance with King Stannis and the northern lords he'd won thus far.  _The Night's Watch takes no sides,_ Jon insisted in his reply. It was risky to even write back,  _gods_ , the most foolish risk he had taken since living amongst the wildlings. After all, why should the Vale care about Winterfell? Lysa Arryn was sister to Catelyn Stark; Jon supposed that might be the link. But the letter was incredibly vague, signed by some Lord Protector or another, and it could just as well have been a trap.

Nevertheless, Jon had not denied the request entirely. It was the least he could do for his father and Robb, he figured, without putting his men or his duty on the line.  _No one need know._  Yet he logical part of him continued to gnaw at his correspondence with these southron lords. His command was strapped for provisions, as it were. Stannis's sizeable army wasn't helping matters—and it was clear they weren't leaving anytime soon. Neither would the wildlings, Val and Tormund and the others, should his upcoming mission prove successful. As Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon shouldn't have even considered aiding this mysterious effort.

 _But why not? Is it not justice?_ His heart was even more stubborn _. Gods, true justice would be fighting for Stannis. With Stannis. He_ _fights for the Realm, and he offers me a place as Lord of Winterfell. I should be avenging my family without this cowardice. That is what I should be doing._

Instead he was making his way over to the King’s Tower in order to fulfill his bargain to Tormund Giantsbane. Winter was coming, faster than any matters of honour or dishonour, and he needed ships for his mission to Hardhome. Stannis would balk at the risky request, he knew, but it had to be done.  _If he is the king I think he is, he will ally with me to bring the wildlings south of the Wall._ No turning back now. 

To his surprise, he found the king outside his solar, leaning over the wooden railing with an uncharacteristic ease. Jon nearly approached, but held far back when he noticed the Lady Melisandre there as well.  _The king’s red shadow._

He had heard much about the red woman when Stannis and his host had first arrived at the Wall, but nothing could prepare him for the full extent of her eccentricities. In the beginning he simply glimpsed her going to and from her nightfires, wandering about the castle and its grounds at all hours like a ruby flame in the darkness. The sellwords had their stories, and his own men talked about her, naturally, but he quieted them when possible. As lord commander he could take no particular interest in this king or his priestess. He had no investment in the politics of Westeros, nor religion—certainly no new gods.

In any case, it was clear that Melisandre was something of a kept woman. The last thing Jon wanted was to cross Stannis Baratheon in such a way. 

Eventually it was she who had come to  _Jon_ , smiling her captivating smile and weaving riddles with her melodious voice. He didn’t know if she was interested in him or just genuinely courteous. He kept distant and formal to be safe. _Besides, what could such a lovely siren want with a boy like him?_

The first time she had come outside without her loose robes, he nearly gawked at her with all the rest of the men. Despite the cold, she seemed so comfortable—and so huge with child she might burst.It had come as a shock then. Now it was just an uncomfortable reality staring them all in the face, a disaster waiting to unfold. Even the king's Hand seemed uneasy with the situation, though Jon suspected his distrust was more for the red priestess than the bastard she carried. 

One day Ser Davos had been studying parchments in the king's solar, a frown marring his worn face. Stannis—shockingly—seemed less concerned about the upcoming campaign. 

"Worry not, ser. Even Lord Snow is confident of our victory in Winterfell, though he refuses to be witness to it." The king's remark was only partially sarcastic, so Jon shrugged in acquiescence. Davos was not convinced.

"Can we truly spare these men for the queen's host?"

The king sighed. "Would you suggest I neglect the protection of my family?" 

"Certainly not, Your Grace." Ser Davos hesitated. "I only fear…the Lady Melisandre will request…" He trailed off when Stannis gave him a pointed look.

"I ask again. Shall I neglect my family?"

"She's not— " Davos caught himself. He seemed distraught that the king had just confirmed his unspoken fear. "As you say, Your Grace."

From the looks they shot each other, Jon doubted it was the first time the priestess had been a point of conflict. 

He was secretly relieved, in all truth, to learn that Melisandre might be relocating to the Nightfort. She was fascinating, yes, with her unsettling beauty and her strange voice, but his instincts remained remarkably cautious. There was something not quite…mortal about her.

Even now...she was standing next to her king, and Jon couldn’t help but study her for a moment. She spoke with great determination, as if something had upset her.  _A distressing hallucination?_   _Some slight against her red god?_  

Jon watched as Stannis straightened up in exasperation.  _Ready to scowl and march off,_ he predicted. To his astonishment the king slipped his hands about her waist, pulling her to him. Melisandre allowed him to kiss the pout from her face. 

 _Well._   Jon raised his eyebrows.  _If Stannis were to have any weakness..._ _I suppose it would be her._

The priestess demurred when one of his hands settled between them, large palm cupping the curve of her belly. Jon snickered at the scowl spreading across her normally tranquil face. Evidently she was not happy that her speech had been interrupted. 

It was irrelevant and distracting, but Jon couldn’t help but be riveted by the strangeness of the encounter. They were two people who never betrayed cracks in their power, yet here they were, bickering like married smallfolk. When they began debating anew, Jon wondered absently what would happen to the babe she carried. It seemed that Stannis might consider recognizing the child, but that didn’t necessarily ensure an easy existence.  _I know that all too well_ , Jon thought in resignation. 

The life of a bastard was a lonely one.

Neither king nor priestess seemed ready to surrender their argument, so Jon turned on his heel and headed back to his chambers, ready to mull anew over his troubled thoughts.

"Lord Commander," a dry voice interrupted. It was Dolorous Edd, climbing to catch him on the stair. "There is a foreign man asking for you."

* * *

"All these Westerosi names sound the same…and all for girls."

Stannis groaned, his hands soothing up her sides once more. "My lady…"

“Don’t try to distract me again," she scolded. "You’ve already put on quite a show for the lord commander." The king’s eyes widened in alarm. He snapped around as if to catch Jon Snow in the act, and Melisandre laughed lightly. 

“He left. But he was watching us for a long while.”

Stannis’s blue eyes narrowed. “That was impertinent of him. Perhaps he needs a talk.”

"Perhaps, my tenacious k—  _oh_."  A dull pain had hit her. "There," she said suddenly, dragging his hand lower over her belly. "Now do you feel?"

Their eyes locked, and by the look on his face, he indeed felt the strange flutter beneath her skin. There was only one other time she'd seen him so contented. 

_"You cannot mean it.”_

_“I offer to legitimize Jon bloody Snow, no one bats an eye, but it's some great crime to recognize mine own?”_

_She stared at him in discomfort, not knowing what to say. “You've spoken to the queen about this?”_

_"Is that not what I said? We have no sons, and only one trueborn daughter. It is a valid request."_

Not when it comes to royalty, _Melisandre thought anxiously, but he did not seem to care._

_"Selyse will consider it, so long as Shireen remains heir apparent. As you said, the people might be wary, but what harm is there in securing one's lineage? It's not as if I'm legitimizing the bastard out of the womb. The throne still falls to my daughter.”_

_The priestess made her way dully to the table as he spoke. “But it is—you realize that someday— ”_

_"Someday is someday," Stannis said hastily. Still, the possibility hit her like a thousand stones. "For now it is just a recognition of the child. It would be irresponsible to deny her the same opportunities as her trueborn sister, to be discarded simply for her birth." If he realized his slip of tongue, he did not bother to correct himself. "It's as I said, my lady. I am not Robert. I want my children to be treated well. To have an upbringing alongside each other, a respectable match when they come of age. For those reasons, I promise you, Westeros will acknowledge this child as mine."_

_It was too difficult to meet his eyes in that moment._ This has never been the issue, _she wanted to say, but perhaps it was—more than she cared to admit to herself. In truth, she had expected to give birth to the disgraceful creature, ship it off somewhere, and pretend it never existed._

_It hadn't occurred to her that Stannis might actually WANT it._

_So the creature would have a face and a name, and to add to the scandal, it would be raised openly within their household? The priestess fidgeted with her scarlet skirts._ _“Why didn’t you tell me, your Grace?”_

_He shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d care.”_

_Melisandre glowered, though she knew she didn’t have the right to be angry. A long silence passed. “Please accept my apology, my king,” she murmured. “I’ve been reckless.”_

_He grimaced. “Yes. You have. But you didn’t ask for this burden. I should have...been more understanding of that.” Had_   _Stannis Baratheon just apologised…?_

_Melisandre willingly glanced down at herself for the first time since she’d discovered her condition. “I'll bear it as best I can,” she sighed._

_He rewarded her with a crooked smile, and she decided it was worth it._

The sight of her abdomen brought her back to the present, but for once, she felt contented—more than she had in ages. It did not escape his notice.

“What is it?”

She glanced up at him, her smile almost bashful. “You do know how I care for you, don’t you, my king?” Her mind hissed in warning.  _What are you doing?_

Stannis shifted. “You believe in my cause, I know it.”

“I believe in  _you_.” He nodded as if to acknowledge the admiration, but he had grown tense.  _Leave it now,_ her mind cautioned again.  _You’re not some maid in a lovers’ tale._ Instead she gazed up at him like she was just that. _It would be so nice,_ her heart argued,  _to be normal, just this once…_ “Tell me you care for me, too,” she whispered.

The king looked as if she had slapped him again. She cursed her foolishness.  _I’ve thrown him off. He’s not used to seeing me beg for praise._   _For anything._

“You are my priestess,” he finally said, and his voice was as dull as an ancient blade. Melisandre felt tears burning her throat, though she didn’t understand why.  _This absurd condition_ ,  _this child is turning me into a pathetic, whining woman._

She forced a smile onto her lips all the same. “If you’ll excuse her, your priestess should get back to her fires.” Melisandre brushed past him as quickly as she could.

“My lady— ” He caught her arm, but she refused to turn around for fear he would see her tearful state. “You misunderstand. You are my priestess, my advisor, yes. But hells…I think you must also be blind…" She tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he held her tight. "Impossible woman! Can you not see you are the person I trust most in this world? These men call you my ‘red shadow,’ damn you— ”

She exhaled sharply. “They should not…”

“Why? It’s the truth,” Stannis insisted. “Where I go, you go, every fool in the kingdoms whispers about it."

There was a brief silence, her silk skirts t in the wind. Melisandre gave him a sullen stare. "You are ashamed of me."

Stannis lifted an eyebrow in response. "You are not the first to accuse me of such," he admitted dryly. "Why, I know not. I will tell you the same I told my daughter, the same I will tell  _our_  daughter. Do you think I keep company with those who bring me shame? Individuals find their place in my house by my decision, and remain by their own merit. Why should I hide them away?" His hand found her damp cheek. "Gods help me, the world condemns me for it. But I'll not hide you either. Not anymore. You are the mother of my child, my priestess, and no other man's. How could I be ashamed of mine own shadow?” Melisandre felt simultaneously annoyed and flattered by his possessiveness. He sighed, brushing away her tears in a rare caress. “Of _course_  I bloody care for you."

The confessions tumbled awkwardly from his lips, but they were still the warmest words in the world. Melisandre leaned up to catch them before they could die in the frozen air. Boots crunched against the snow somewhere behind him. "There are more men waiting for you," she realized.

"Fine." He kissed her again.

"Truly, my king, they will see."

"Truly, I don't care."

She laughed through her tears, then coyly lifted her eyes to his. "Perhaps you may prove that to me…"

"Will I never be free of your demands, woman?"

 _R'hllor, this man is hopeless._ She tried again. "Save that question for my bed."

Stannis balked. "My lady—I don't— " 

"I knew it! You find me unsightly, I am too large!"

"Don't be absurd. I was only saying it is dangerous, now you are nearly full-term." 

"That's not how it works," she said wryly. Her burning hands tugged him toward the castle. "Let me show you, my king."

He was about to when an accented voice shattered the air. 

_"Melony?"_

* * *

> _Signed,_
> 
> _Lord Snow_
> 
> _998th Commander of the Night's Watch_

She read the words again.

_Snow._

Her heart began beating in a strange rhythm. 

_It is Jon after all._

How odd it was to imagine him now, alive and risen to such a rank. He had been a bastard living within the walls of Winterfell, and that alone was a true scandal.  Even so...did she truly  _know_  him? He was always excluded, somehow. Different from her trueborn siblings. To her mother he was a barely-tolerable stain upon her father's name. To  _her_  young sensibilities, he was much too serious a boy. Always so solemn, trying to prove himself. She hadn't found him much fun back then. 

Now she was wiser to the world, and much more understanding of his bitterness. 

 _Baseborn or not, he is my blood._ The idea truly sank in then, her heart beating more rapidly.  _I have family in this world—I have family in the North—_

"Alayne?"

She tore her eyes away, trying to conceal the letter on the oak table. Lord Baelish's smile did not reach his eyes. "You are distracted, my dear." 

Her mind went blank for a moment. _Say something._

"I read such harrowing reports," she explained sweetly. Littlefinger sat smoothly across from her.

"We must be patient a while longer, Alayne." He reached for the worn letter. Her heart constricted, breath catching, but he only tapped the pages with his pointer finger. "Did the Watch mention Stannis Baratheon? His forces are still there, which means they've had time enough to strategise." 

Alayne was about to play ignorant, but he had already seen through her little ruse.  _Of course he knows, you dumb girl._ She sighed. "There was a brief mention. They say they can spare little provision with so many soldiers." She stood impatiently. "What are his intentions at the Wall, anyhow?"

"We've discussed this, my dear. He means to take Winterfell, and he will. When he does, we— "

"I meant, why does he wait so long? Winter draws near, and the Boltons— " She stopped when he lifted an eyebrow at her. "To  _strategise?"_  she repeated incredulously. 

A genuine grin tugged at his lips, and beneath the guise of Littlefinger,she caught a glimpse of the man called Petyr. There was no mockery in his voice when he spoke. "You have learned well, my darling mockingbird." She kept her lips in a straight line, trying not to be charmed by the softening lines around his eyes.

Was this truly the manipulator who had taught her the art of deception? The heartless lord who had taken her from her husband, had killed her aunt and Joffrey and— _gods knew how many others_ —had charmed the lords of the East to her favor, to his will? Destroyed all dissent until the Vale sang of their ambition, as high as honour? 

She tried to find Littlefinger now, but saw only Petyr before her. Here was the man she'd discovered little by little, peeling away the layers of his identity as she did his fine clothes. He played aloof when he came to her rooms, even when he wound up in her bed, but she had chipped at his walls too persistently for that. His grey gaze betrayed warmth in her presence. 

"I have my own  _reports_ , my dear. If my suspicions are correct, the king will move south once he's settled with personal matters."

Alayne drifted out of her musing. "Which matters?"

This time, the smile did reach his eyes. "He's been praying most enthusiastically, it would seem. His priestess is rumoured to carry the fruit of that devotion." Petyr's wit was enticing, enough so that her resolve nearly crumbled. She paced behind his chair to study the hearth. 

"He's gotten a bastard off his  _priestess_?"

Lord Baelish watched her calmly. "Even Stannis Baratheon has his weakness, my dear." She wanted to enjoy Petyr's cunning smile, to let her guard down for one moment, but she forced herself not to make the same mistakes as him. 

"How right you are, my lord." Alayne's hand brushed his shoulder. "Any man is undone by the right woman." 

* * *

_"Melony?"_

The man approached in disbelief, his dark skin contrasting with the snows. Her heart had begun to pound, but Stannis simply scowled at the knights who'd escorted the man. "Can't you keep this place clear of peddling foreigners?"

Richard Horpe spoke up. "A trader passing west along the Wall, Your Grace. We have no control over these affairs at Castle Black."

"Fine." Stannis waved his hand. "But he seems to have lost his way, Slayer, thanks to your incompetence." 

The queen's man defended himself feebly. "Lord Snow said—he was asking f— " 

"I do not lose way," the man in question interrupted clumsily. He then switched to a tongue Melisandre had nearly forgotten. "I had to see for myself…a red lady from Asshai. I did not believe when they told me."  

The chill of the air began to seep into the priestess's bones. The years had aged his face, but she had not forgotten it. Just then she noticed the woman hidden behind him, wrapped in coarse dark robes from head to toe. Melisandre caught a glimpse of the teardrop inked high on her cheekbone, though she was holding the fabric tight across her face.

Bile threatened the priestess's throat. She forced herself to stay calm. "I am surprised to see a demon such as you, come all the way to the North of Westeros." The language felt like poison upon her lips. 

He chuckled. "I see an open market…I take advantage. But I, too, am surprised…to see little Melony here, grown a red priestess." Her ruby choker had begun to burn her skin, the pain worsening as his dark eyes raked over her form. "And with a belly full of bastard?" His tone was patronizing. "Things might have been easier for you, had you learned this trick earlier."

"This  _trick?"_

He offered her the taunting curve of his lips. "How to spread your thighs." 

Her blood was boiling, she was certain of it. By the time she turned away, the world was tilting in a scarlet haze. "Remove him, please," she requested tightly. The king paused in his chastisement of the queen's men, looking between her and the merchant with a wary expression.

"Who is he?"

"I speak common tongue," the man interjected. 

Stannis looked pained. "That is questionable." 

"Please," Melisandre entreated again, desperately trying to swallow the tears in her throat. The king became alarmed, glancing sharply back at the man. 

"State your name," he demanded. The trader had the decency to bow in introduction.  _Oh, he respects men,_ she remembered bitterly. _Men with power and gold._  

"Vogarro Qhaedar, your Grace." He flashed his yellowed teeth at Melisandre. "Your red plaything knew me by other title, once."

The king was not so amused. "Get him out of here," he hissed at the guards. "And my knights—bring Snow to me." They hesitated at the confrontational order. "Now!"

Melisandre did not turn around, even after the men had escorted Vogarro and his companion away. She felt the king's familiar touch upon her neck, running over the red skin beneath her choker. "Are you well?"

 _Am I?_ It wasn't the first time he'd asked her that question, but now, she didn't know the answer herself. _Why could she not defend herself? How had she become so weak?_

She was in a precarious state, of course, but the king had already broken a thousand unspoken rules for her—it did not help he insisted she share his chambers in these late weeks of her condition. To be in his apartments in the King's Tower was scandalous enough. To prepare for her childbed at his side was even less acceptable. Sometimes his protection was oddly flattering; other times, incensing, as he was so quick to panic about her health. An interrogation would follow whenever she shot up in bed with tears upon her cheeks, or whenever she so much as winced, unable to conceal her pain from him. "I am fine, my king," she would smile, annoyed by the narrowing of his eyes. When they finally retired for the night, he would pull her back against his chest, running his hands protectively over her middle. But it was difficult to accustom to the practice of consistent sleep, no matter how desperately she needed the rest these days, and his rooms were too dark. Sleep itself seemed threatening, and as a result, her period of confinement began to feel more and more suffocating.

She'd learned to employ different distractions, for his sake and her own. Sometimes it was a walk in the chilled evening air, sometimes it was curling up in her chair by the fire, pouting until he permitted her to remain there. Sometimes her efforts were more daring. One night when he'd settled behind her in bed, she fumbled to find him through his breeches. After a minute of scandalized quarreling, he relented and took her in that very position. It was possible to face the nightmares then,  when his hips were rocking against hers and she could drift off in his strong embrace.  

But at present, the pain was too excruciating to feign otherwise. No comfort could assuage it. Dishonesty seemed futile, so she settled for silence. Stannis did not question further. He had learned enough about her over the years—whether gathered directly, or while soothing her through violent terrors of the night—to make a guess about the man. 

He asked only one question now.

"Do you want me to kill him?" 

Perhaps it was foolish to be touched by his offer. Melisandre allowed him to lead her into the king's solar. "He'll not raise a hand to my person, my king. I would have seen it in my flames."

"I did not ask about your flames. A yes or no will suffice." 

There was a brief silence, and then her eyes lifted to his. "Yes," she said softly. Just then, Lord Snow rushed up the stairs of the King's Tower, several brothers of the Watch in tow. Stannis's knights followed close behind. 

"Your Grace," Jon greeted before all the others could shuffle into the crowded space. "Is there something the matter? I was here earlier, but— " 

"You'd do well to stop criminals from passing through your castle," Stannis grit out.

"What— " Jon held out his hands in exasperation. "Half my men came as rapists and thieves. What harm is a merchant, especially now the North is dry of resource?"

"He'll be executed at dusk." 

Lord Snow balked, glancing at Melisandre. "What crime has he committed, to warrant such a sentence?" 

Every eye fell upon her. 

 _A great many crimes,_  she thought, but her throat was still tight. Stannis spoke before she could, reluctant to tear his gaze from her face.

"It matters not. My soldiers will make the preparations." The scene began to cause a stir among the men present, their voices lifting in assent or protest.

Jon was of the latter. "I must object, your Grace," he said reluctantly, eyeing the priestess all the while. "This post and the men who pass—they are under my command. My judgment." 

"Your judgment? Do you fancy yourself a god now, to question mine own?" 

Snow clenched his fists. "I fancy myself a just commander."

Melisandre's eyes fell shut. It was a poor choice of words.

"Did you hear, sers?" Stannis took to shouting. "Lord Snow finds my sense of justice lacking. However shall I live?"

Jon recoiled in defense. "Aye, I find it greatly lacking, if you'll send a man to his death to appease your mistress, her lust for some fire god!"

The room erupted in outrage, raised voices of queen's men echoing off stone walls. Melisandre began to feel dizzy once more, desiring nothing but her chair by the hearth. It was unfortunate to be trapped in the moment, especially in the midst of a mild chaos.

The king's voice had fallen dangerously low, scarcely heard above the clamour in the room. "A week into your command, boy, and you dare— " 

"Patience, my lords," Melisandre entreated, but their voices overpowered hers.  _I sound weak_ , she realized,  _even weaker than I feel._ She grasped Stannis's arm. "Please, my king...there is no need. Leave it now." He thrust her away from him, continuing his heated debate with Lord Snow. The room spun again, and the air felt heavy, stifling. For once the heat brought no comfort. "I'm not well," she finally admitted, but the king scarcely noticed her. It wasn't until she stumbled to bury herself in his chest, pride and propriety forgotten, that he even glanced down at her. 

"My lady?" 

"Please, I feel ill," she murmured against his stiff doublet. His eyes widened slightly, and he dragged her to the chair at his desk, turning to the arguing men with a hostile look.

"Quiet!  _All of you._  Snow, get your men out of here." Jon nearly objected, but froze at the sight of a faint Melisandre. 

Normally Stannis's cool touch was irksome to her, but it felt soothing against her forehead now. "We shall call for the maester," he decided. She leaned dazedly into his hand. 

"I am well," she sighed, the haze clearing and humiliation setting in.

"You don't know that," Stannis snapped. "What of the babe?"

She frowned absently. "What of— "  _Oh. The babe?_  There was a dull pain flowing from her neck to her thighs, much more incessant than it had been the past sleepless nights.  _Something is not right,_  she admitted.

_But what?_

A thousand thoughts flew through her mind.Perhaps...the rituals all those months ago had been effective after all, and it was only his life force that failed to bind the shadow completely. Could the sorcery have damaged her womb, where his weaker fire had already taken? Had it damaged the seed itself, the human child harmed by her violent efforts? Perhaps that was the true reason for the illness, the loss of power, the strange visions…

 _R'hllor, have I erred so grievously?_  She prayed for her sorcery now.  _Allow me to fix this, grant me your favour again, some control over my own humanity…_ The Lord did not seem to approve of her request, as she still found herself swooning like a sickly child in the king's solar. It was the worst penance He could have bestowed upon her. 

Jon cleared out the room a bit, turning to them with a frown. "I'm afraid Maester Aemon won't be of much help at his age." 

"It is  _nothing_ ," Melisandre said quickly, trying to stand. Her cheeks flushed with shame when the room spun again. 

"Sit, damn you," Stannis ordered, pushing her back into the chair. 

 _What use?_ She felt immensely frustrated.  _It may be lost already._ The painful realization came unbidden to her mind.  _It may be lost, and Stannis may blame me for it..._

He stood firmly behind her now, impatient with the whole situation. " _Listen_ , you insolent wretches." The remaining men obeyed, shifting anxiously. "Lord Snow wishes to know the crime of the man in question. So I tell you: he has brought harm to a woman. Ordinarily it is sufficient to remove a hand or a tongue for this, or to geld a man for the foulest offense. But this is no  _ordinary_  case." The king's hand came to rest at the nape of her neck. "This is my lady, and she is with child." His stare was iron. "That rogue has earned his death, and if any of you doubt it, you are welcome to try and lay a hand on her as well."

Melisandre's cheeks burned in the silence that followed. No one seemed particularly eager to take the challenge.

"That is well," Lord Snow said uneasily. "Did he actually raise a hand to her?"

Stannis's free fist crashed into the desk before her. "Does it  _actually_ matter? Can you not see she is distressed?"

Jon closed his eyes. "When a man's life is in question, it — " Ser Richard Horpe began to curse Jon anew, but Stannis said nothing, only snaked his fingers furiously around the priestess's throat.

"Don't," she pleaded, feeling absurdly like an animal on display. He pulled the ruby down just enough to reveal the angry red mark on her neck. Melisandre jerked away from his touch, utterly mortified, but the men had already seen her injury. The room fell silent once more.

Jon spoke up, ever persistent. "Why should he do such a thing? It seems strange, especially she's in a delicate state— "

 _I have had enough_. "I am sitting right here in my  _delicate state,_ " Melisandre hissed. Her melodious voice was not as strong as it usually was, but the men stared at her, seeming to notice her presence in the room for the first time. She sighed, desperate to be done with the confrontation. "My lords…it must be confessed. The true offense is of a different nature. In which case it is well within my king's power to enforce the laws of his kingdoms, and to prevent the spread of unjust practices." Stannis tried to silence her once he realized her intent, but she fully ignored him. "As it were...the man's trade is forbidden in Westeros." 

Jon shifted. "Which trade is that, my lady?"

Her surroundings seemed to be tilting again. "Slavery," she said softly. The men muttered amongst themselves, and the lord commander lifted an eyebrow in surprise. 

"How can you know this?" 

Melisandre felt all eyes burning her. "I— " her throat tightened again. Air seemed impossible to find.  _R'hllor, spare me further humiliation._.. Through her panic she felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"I assure you, my lady is familiar with affairs and faces of the Eastern cities," Stannis cut in evenly. "As she said, Lord Snow. That  _judgment_   is under my control." 

"Examine the woman with him," Melisandre added quietly. Jon studied her in disbelief, trying to discern meaning from the whole ordeal. Eventually he relented, bowing his head stiffly. "Arrange it as you wish, then. I apologize for any offense, your Grace. My lady." His eyes lingered on her throat as he took his leave.

* * *

When the sun was falling from the sky and the castle shuffling toward the courtyard, she felt Jon's suspicious gaze upon her again. Vogarro was led in chains at her side, ranting in her ear. "You were never meant to be a priestess. That was not what I traded you for. The temple agreed, didn't they?" She ignored his interrogation, but he was relentless. "I imagine you learned much when you fled to Asshai. Is that how you hide the markings?" 

She turned the questions on him. "Why are you really here?"

He looked at her oddly. "I know this land well, I speak common tongue…well." He forced a grin. "More than the priests, at least, who stand out so much in this land. For ones such as you…it is me they send." He tilted his head curiously. "What was your number? I swore I'd remember, you were the most difficult of your kind." Melisandre said nothing, only focused on the king as they approached.

His gaze was reassuring. "My lady, you should not..."

"I will do this," she insisted. Stannis frowned but allowed them to pass. 

The Volantene watched the exchange with sobering interest. "You have risen in this world indeed," he observed, voice betraying his fear. Soldiers pulled him to the stake, and he began speaking more rapidly. "But you must understand, power can be taken as easily as it is granted. I already sent a raven." Panic set in for both, she at his words, he at the feel of coarse rope around his wrists. "More will follow," he warned, "and they will find you, and they will drag you down where you belong. It is the way of the world, Melony. Service is binding. " 

A torch was placed in her hands. She hardly felt the flames lick her skin, barely heard the prayer of those around her.  _"Lord of Light, take this sacrifice, fill us with fire, for the night is dark and full of terrors!"_

"I remember," Vogarro called out suddenly. A sad smile spread across his face. "Melony, Melony...Lot Seven." Behind her the queen's men were lifting their voices higher to R'hllor, louder and more frenzied, but the priestess did not join in.

"My name is Melisandre," she said, and then she lit the pyre beneath him. 

That unpleasant face was even more unpleasant twisted by agony and flame and charred skin. But despite the increasing burn of the ruby at her throat, radiating down her entire body, she felt serene once more.  _This pain is ecstasy,_  she told herself, feeling feverish again. 

Time seemed to move slower and slower, but the man eventually became ash, a black stain on the snow, and then the rest of the world became black, too. She awoke with many candles around her, not knowing how she had ended up between the furs of Stannis's bed.

"My king," she breathed, but he avoided her eyes, resting his hand on the swell of her belly. 

It was only then she realized her ruby had been removed, and the pains were still wracking her body. 

* * *

"My lords, if you will," Alayne began. Noble faces glanced up, surprised by her boldness. Her thoughts spun anxiously.  _Do I terrify?_

  _No, of course not._

 

_But I shall._

"You should know why you were called here."

* * *

Melisandre blinked through the haze. This vision seemed promising. She tried to focus on the girl, this new development, but it was interrupted by the sensation of a burning knife in her womb. The pain escalated rapidly, as it always did.

_Ten,_ she corrected.  _Ten burning knives._

In truth, it was far worse than binding shadows. She was unprepared—no—shocked by the strength of this pain, ripping through her like searing flame. And she was disappointed. It would not bring the same ecstasy as her sorcery, her fires. Only a human child would come of this—and who knew if it would even be alive, let alone a useful thing? Melisandre had made peace with the fact that there would be a babe sooner or later, but that did not mean she had to appreciate it. Certainly not this hellish process!

The crooked old woman rasped more orders at Gilly, an unkempt girl who trailed after Samwell Tarley. In all honesty, the priestess cared for neither of these women, but Stannis had sent for the former from a nearby village, barking at his men to find a midwife—or  _any damned_   _woman,_ for that matter. And the wildling girl had a bastard babe of her own, sired by her own wretched father. To her credit Gilly had proven surprisingly adequate for the labour—certainly more soothing than this midwife and her silly old ways.

Melisandre would count her blessings.

The reality was that very few women inhabited the Wall at this moment. Most of their dull maids and serving girls had remained by the sea with the queen, so when her pains began during the execution, the king had all but panicked.  _I don’t care,_ Melisandre thought as another spasm wrenched her back. That had been a full day ago, and she no longer cared about  _his_  comfort.

“You do well, m’lady,” the midwife assured her, bunching the soaked shift above her knees to examine her progress. “Now you should rest.”

“No,” Melisandre grit out. She was _not_ weak. This exhaustion was temporary, this fever would pass with the Lord’s help, and she would soon be done with this nightmare. She knew by now that her sorcery would not extend to the process, but that was fine; this agony was nothing, nothing at all.Her mind chanted the words over and over again, but it failed to relieve the suffering in her body.  _It is nothing, nothing, nothing…_ The pains came faster, and she panted, gripping the edge of her chair with white knuckles.

“Put more wood on the fire,” she demanded. Normally she was quite gentle with her servants, but she hadn’t the patience now. In any case, she craved the distraction of the mockingbird. 

Gilly stared at her with that blank expression of hers. “But…you’re burning, m’la—”

“Do it!”

The old woman nodded sharply to the girl, and Gilly finally moved to obey, pushing several new logs onto the hearth. 

* * *

"Indeed, my lords," that cunning man chimed in, raising his goblet. "As you know, my dear niece has been considering marriage to our little Lord Arryn. Tonight she wishes— "

"To postpone the union," Alayne finished sweetly.

There was a mild reaction from around the table, but these men seemed more interested in their pheasant than anything else. 

Her companion hid his confusion well, setting the wine down. "Dearest Alayne," he chuckled. "But of course we shall wait until your intended is of age. Surely we may still celebrate the betrothal."

She rose gracefully at the end of the table then, like the noblest lady in all the kingdoms.

"My lords." The dark-haired girl had caught everyone's attention now. "It is not only my Sweetrobin's age which gives me pause." 

A sandy-haired lord spoke up, sympathetic with mulled wine in his belly. "Then what, my dear?" 

"I am saddened to say, my lords, there are matters of family I must first attend to. Thus I shall return home." She took a deep breath. "To Winterfell."

* * *

Melisandre sighed.  _Yes_ , _yes, I know this already._ She leaned against the back of the chair in fatigue. The pains were quickening again, but her eyes remained fixed on the leaping flames—R’hllor’s flames—the source of her strength. She prayed He would see her through this ordeal now.  _I know it is my own fault, the result of my sinful weakness, but only end this night and bring the dawn, I beg of you…_

The torture hit Melisandre with brute strength, then, and she cried out into the quiet night, on the verge of succumbing to bedrest. _No._ This was her penance. She would endure it. 

There was a rapid knock upon the door, and she decided she'd murder whomever disturbed them now. Gilly cracked the chamber door open, speaking quietly with the mysterious visitor. “M’lady…” she turned toward the red woman, still holding the door ajar. “It’s…there’s a boy, says the k-king wishes to come in.”

The midwife scoffed. “Tell him it’s too late, girl! This babe comes, whether or not we like it.”

“He wants to see her…”

The old woman wrenched Melisandre’s skirt down, balking. “By all the gods, it’s improper!”

Melisandre raked her nails down the wooden arms of her chair. “By your false tree gods, perhaps,” she hissed. “You heard Devan, that is the rightful ruler of these Seven Kingdoms. Let him in.”

The midwife raised her eyebrows in irritation. “Very well, m’lady.” Melisandre released another groan as the king barged into the room.

“Your Grace,” the midwife muttered, annoyance creeping into her tone, but Melisandre could tell she was as terrified of him as the poor girl in the corner. Still, the old woman was bold. “It’s not right Your Grace is here,” she insisted, walking over to address him. “The child is nearly descended.” Stannis scowled in the doorframe, though his gaze was fixed on the red priestess. He looked tired. Evidently he hadn’t slept well either.

“Why does she labour so long?” he demanded. “She’s in pain.”

The midwife nearly rolled her eyes. “That is quite common, I assure Your Grace.”

Gilly scurried to soothe the priestess through another wracking pain. Melisandre dimly followed their conversation, trying to make out the hushed voices through her own cries.

"She is not full term," Stannis was saying. The midwife's gaze slid back to Melisandre. 

"No? She looks full term." 

"She's not," he said flatly. His voice fell quiet again. "I only fear she is— she has been so unwell. It was distress brought on her pains.”

"I'm not distressed!" Melisandre snapped. Just then she lurched forward, nearly doubled over in suffering. She grit her teeth, dragging her eyes back up to the flames. 

* * *

"Alayne…" 

She shook her head before her guardian could salvage the situation. "I did not serve there, my lords. Winterfell is my ancestral seat."

 There was a silence, and then the table came alive with disbelief.

"Do you claim birthright to Winterfell?"

"I do, my lords, and I ask you to support that claim now."

An aged lord was not so eager. "Surely you cannot expect us to believe this—this deception—Lord Baelish, what have you to say? We serve the Iron Throne, as do you!"

Alayne cut in, seeing her chance. "The throne occupied by a boy, a bastard of incest and corrupt Lannister gold? I know you cannot truly be faithful to them. Those same Lannisters who killed your lord, Jon Arryn, the same who killed my father, Lord Eddard Stark? The throne supported by the Boltons, who at this very moment shame the North with their barbaric rule, the same who betrayed my brother and my mother—your lady's sister!"

She emptied a gold goblet over her fingers, then combed the water through her braid. It gleamed ruddy in color.

"I am of her blood, I swear it, Tully blood. I am also the wolf blood of the North. And the North remembers, my lords." 

She held up her fingers then, stained black as ink.

* * *

Before Melisandre could process this, she heard the old woman protesting something. To her shock, the king strode to her chair, prompting Gilly to scramble away. “My lady,” he murmured.

"My king?" Her heart fluttered when Stannis knelt in front of her, pushing a strand of copper hair from her burning face. He frowned at the ruby once more adorning her neck, though he said nothing of it.

“Should she not move to the bed?”

The midwife threw her hands in the air. Melisandre shook her head with determination. “Listen, all of you,” she hissed against another contraction, “I will remain by the fire!” Stannis raised an eyebrow, but he sensibly did not argue. “I feel— “ The priestess screwed her eyes up until the torment subsided. “I feel— there is pressure...”

The old woman snapped at Gilly to prepare the rushes on the floor, rolling up her woolen sleeves as she did so. “Your Grace,” she said firmly, “you must leave now. The child will be here before the sun.”  _Stillborn or living,_  was the silent understanding. 

Melisandre arched her back desperately, no longer able to think of anything but the pain, though she did feel the back of his hand, cool against her cheek. “Very well,” the king conceded. He rose in a blur, and then he was gone as soon as he had come.

The next hours passed in a red blur of agony as well, her throat raw from screaming and muscles aching with exertion. Melisandre gripped Gilly’s thin arms for support, praying with any strength she had left. Melisandre's mind was reeling by the time the dawn finally broke through her window.

“Slide forward, m’lady…just a bit more…push!”

“For God’s sake, get it out of me,” she gasped, eyes blurred with tears and exhaustion. The midwife’s hands groped at something, but Melisandre had no energy to look. There was a rush between her thighs, blood or something else, and she certainly didn’t care to see that either. A weak cry pierced the room.  _Is that truly me?_ She couldn’t tell anymore. She was vaguely aware of unrelenting pressure in her lower body, but made one last effort with the flames. 

* * *

_I have done it again,_  the mockingbird thought.  _Reborn once more._

"Uphold your honour now," she demanded. "There are forces rising in the North, eager for alliance, desperate for justice. You can defend the honourable houses left in Westeros, or you can yield to these monsters in King's Landing. That is your choice."

Several men tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice above them.

"Lord Baelish—your Lord Protector—has shown his strength here in the Vale, as will I going forth. Do not doubt, then, I will make good on my word. I will destroy any supporter of Cersei and her bastards." 

_I will eat men like air._

"Alayne. Now is not the time." 

The girl looked over the stunned faces of the room. "Not for Alayne. But for Sansa Stark, it is."

* * *

The midwife made a noise of incredulity. "Steady, m'lady...I understand your illness now." Melisandre's head spun with faintness.

_Was this what it felt like to be mortal? This weakness, this fear of death?_ She was overwhelmed by the stimulation, unable to comprehend anything that was happening. _Dying is an art,_ she decided, _like everything else…_

One last flood of searing pain—so searing she felt all energy leave her body—and finally the agony ceased.

“Gilly, clean the lady up and get her to bed.”

She did not die. But her mockingbird did, the flames gone, devoid of any image at all. The stillness seemed deafening. Only that forgotten song echoed in the hearth.  _Out of ash I rise with my red hair, out of the ash I rise with my red hair, out of the ash I rise..._

Incessant cries also rose in the air, growing louder as Gilly tended to her bloodied thighs.  _The child,_ Melisandre realized numbly.

_I birthed a child._


	4. PART FOUR | The Sacrifice of Winter

[ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/145994556466/ludvikskp-melisandre-more-stuff)

* * *

She had birthed more than just a child, as it turned out. But it was neither shadow nor demon.  _Not entirely._

After Melisandre had rested a while, Gilly approached her with a bundle of linens. “D’you want to hold him, m’lady?” The red priestess did not tear her gaze from the fire.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Gilly frowned, rocking the restless child. “This one is like mine, hungry a'ready…a wet nurse hasn’t been found yet.”

 _I just want my power back, to return to how things were, devoting my time to the Lord._ Melisandre sighed and looked at the wildling girl. “Are you still nursing?”

Gilly shifted under the intense scrutiny of the woman. “A little."

“Then you have a duty, for now.” Melisandre turned back to the fire. Perhaps it was unfair to leave the girl with the feeding of three children, and perhaps it would not last long. But the priestess could not bear the thought of putting the…children to breast. Not just yet. She heard Gilly shuffle away to nurse in the next chamber, which had been designated as a nursery for the time being.

There had been a day weeks ago when Stannis’s soldiers brought the cradle into her chamber. They’d fashioned it from what they found in the surrounding forests, though R'hllor knew why. “I don’t want it in here _,”_ she told them. None of them questioned whether the ‘it’ referred to the cradle or the child.

Either way, she prayed Gilly would settle there and leave her in peace. The fire was lulling her into repose.  _Blessed silence_ , she thought, her eyes drifting closed of their own accord. It was some time before there was a knock at the door, and not from the timid hand of Devan.

The king himself entered without waiting for a response. “My lady,” he said gently.

Melisandre looked back to the fire, not knowing what she should do. “They are alive,” she said stupidly. He continued approaching her bed as if she were a fragile thing.

“A boy and a girl, the crone said?” He waited for an answer, but she only snickered at his distaste for the old northern woman. “Where are they?”

Her back and thighs ached as she shifted to sit up straighter. “Gilly is feeding them.”

"Who in seven hells is Gilly?"

 _R'hllor, I am too fatigued for this._ "The— " Melisandre gestured vaguely with her hand."The wildling girl."

Stannis frowned. “We’ll need to find another wet nurse, then,” he said dryly. A moment passed. 

“Are you displeased with me?” she whispered.

He looked at her with that same mild expression again, taking a seat next to her bed. “Why would I be displeased? You delivered of two healthy children. It is— " He broke off to shake his head. "It is most admirable." 

 _Most admirable?_ "As you say,” Melisandre muttered, too drained to argue.

In truth, they’d come some weeks earlier than expected, but they were healthy, according to the midwife. It explained a great many things for the king and the priestess. It also left them somewhat catatonic. 

“Are you well?”

“As can be expected,” she said ambiguously. The corner of Stannis’s mouth lifted slightly.

“Then you’ll permit me to kiss you?”

Melisandre raised an eyebrow, unwillingly charmed by this rare temperament.  _He is proud,_ she realized as he pressed his lips to hers.  _Proud of his children._ The concept was so foreign it left her witless.

"You removed my ruby," she blurted. Regret immediately set in. It was more accusatory than she had meant it to be. 

"Of course I did." The king studied her for a moment. "You were ill. It was burning you."

"You should not have done so," she managed, failing to veil her hurt. 

A shadow passed over Stannis's face. "Why, my lady? I do not understand these past days. That man— " 

"It does not matter. You should not have taken it!" Melisandre exhaled harshly, trying to quell her anger. "You saw me," she mumbled.

"I am seeing you now."

She lost her temper fully then, irrational tears choking her throat. "Don't mock me, Stannis, you've done enough already— " 

"What have I  _done_  that is so terrible?" he demanded. "Perhaps you can answer my questions now!" 

"You should not have to see me," she glowered. 

"I don't— " Stannis ran his hand down his face, exasperated. "I don't understand. You think I judge you for your past, is that it?" The priestess rubbed furiously at the tears upon her cheeks. He shook his head. "You think  _I_  care? Why do you hide from me, woman?"

Distant voices reminded her why.  _The gods put the marks on you, for your disobedience. It is a curse._ Her voice was little more than a whisper. "Please, don't, my king."

Stannis's face softened. "You are very foolish, Melisandre." 

_It is no curse, Melony, but a blessing. You are marked by the One True God._

The creaking door broke her out of the memory. Gilly entered the room with a child in each arm, stopping dead at the sight of the king.

“Your G-Grace.” She shifted uneasily. “M’lady…should I…?”

Melisandre sighed, breaking the tense silence. “You may settle them in the next room. Thank you, Gilly.”

“No,” Stannis interrupted, and both women froze. He looked at her pointedly. "We will speak of this matter when you are rested. Now, I wish to see my daughter."

Gilly looked between the two of them for a shocked moment, but quickly moved to the bed to fulfill the king's request. Stannis seemed anxious as the girl was passed to him, his large hands cradling her delicately. Melisandre could barely repress her scowl as the boy was left with her. The wildling girl scurried out of the room, no doubt to rest herself, and then they were alone with the children for the first time.

For a long moment the priestess refused to look at the child, imagining an aversion to the very feel of him in her arms.

When she finally did look, the grimace was wiped from her face.  _He is very small,_ she thought in a rare moment of awe. And she could admit—objectively—they were beautiful. Distracting, useless, perhaps…but captivating all the same, with their little wisps of raven hair.  _True Baratheons, to be sure._  All rational thought left her as the boy stirred and whimpered, stretching his tiny arms as if to escape his swaddling. Melisandre’s heart ached with something she didn’t quite understand. 

 _I created this,_ she realized, and this time, the idea knocked the breath from her.  _We made these lives, Stannis and I._ She glanced up at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Do you understand?” he asked simply, his own gaze locked on the sleeping girl in his arms. No doubt he was reminded of Princess Shireen's birth.

“Yes,” she breathed. And she did understand, for the first time—even if just a little. A long moment passed as her gaze fell back on her child. “I know you intend to name her. But may I...name this one?” It was a bold request, especially for the son of a king. She heard him groan, but he acquiesced.  _It's not as if he'd even considered a boy..._

"Have you settled on one for her, after so much deliberation?" she asked wryly. Something remarkable happened, then. Stannis Baratheon genuinely smiled. He nodded toward the babe in his arms.

"Rhaedeny suits her."

The word rolled naturally through her mind. "Valyrian?" she wondered. 

"Valyrian," Stannis confirmed. His deep blue eyes grew distant. "To honour my grandmother, Rhaelle. My children have the blood of the dragon…even if just a little. So she shall be called Rhaedeny, and everyone shall know it." 

As if in reply, the babe squirmed mightily, her little fists reaching for her father. Melisandre leaned over to peer into the bundle just as the child's eyelids fluttered. When they opened for the first time, her heart dropped.

Scarlet eyes stared back.

* * *

The mockingbird was gone.

 _Sansa,_ Melisandre corrected herself.  _Sansa is gone._

Gone from the Vale or gone from the world, she knew not. The visions were far too muddled now. 

One thing was clear, however. Her sorcery was slowly being restored, and to her immense relief, she felt somewhat herself again. Once more in control of her body and emotions, she could slip on the guise of confidence at a moment's notice. And she thanked the Lord for it—because her twisting flames offered little assurance now.

Indeed, the only time she saw  _anything_  was in the fire of Rhaedeny's eyes. Truth be told, Melisandre avoided her daughter as best she could, but even when she caught sight of something in the babe's startling gaze, the images were useless. She saw nothing but the first vision she'd ever received in her wretched life.

_It is mostly flame. But sometimes there is…a girl, sometimes a man with her. And a blade. A red blade, in a great chaos._

Her heart dropped each time she was forced to interpret it.

_I know the man, the blade, yes...but the girl?_   _I do not understand._ _Why must you show me this girl?_

She wracked her mind for every detail she had gathered over years and years of painful visions. A girl. Smuggled away. Saved from the man's sword. A girl with fire in her blood. A young girl.  _But why, Lord? Why this girl?_

_This infant girl?_   _  
_

"My lady? The babe is…"

_The babe is what?_

Melisandre blinked down at the child bundled beneath her red robes.  _Oh._ “Hush,” she hissed, coming back to the present. She tried to calm Izaak as he cried through her morning prayers.  _It was a mistake to bring them out here,_ she thought, rocking the boy impatiently.  _But what could I do?_   

Once she had agreed to nurse the children herself—as much as she could manage, at least—Gilly timidly asked if she might be dismissed to travel with Samwell Tarley. Melisandre had little authority over the wildling girl’s affairs, so the two had departed for Oldtown the previous week. The priestess found the girl's departure somewhat distressing. There were few available women around the Wall as it were. None suitable for care of a highborn child, let alone two.

It was in an odd twist of events that Melisandre had found herself a new companion.

Her name was Qhava, and she was of dark countenance, carrying a familiar Low Valyrian dialect and twenty-five years of bitter servitude. She was the woman with the teardrop upon her cheekbone—the slave whom Vogarro had brought to Westeros. With the execution of the merchant, she'd been effectively stranded, with nowhere to go and nothing to her name. It was thus she found herself living in a dank room in the vault of Castle Black. Lord Snow insisted on it, and Stannis agreed. Nothing good would come of keeping a pleasure slave in the main hold of the Night's Watch. 

That was before the red priestess had given birth to twins at the edge of the North. After that unfortunate event, Qhava had been tasked to assist her, though she was of little use with no milk in her body. It was her company Melisandre found most useful. They did not speak much, but when they did, she sensed a sly sort of wisdom in the former slave. Qhava shadowed the priestess now, silent as a ghost, clutching little Rhaedeny to her chest. She did not seem as unsettled by the babe's scarlet eyes as everyone else. The first time she had set her gaze upon the child, she said nothing, only raised her eyebrows at the priestess. Melisandre had seen that look before. She ignored it, as she did all the other stares.

"This is the daughter of a king," Melisandre said in Valyrian, holding her chin high and haughty.  

Qhava caught onto the threat in the priestess's voice. She nodded in understanding, and they fell into a strange sort of routine. 

It seemed that so much had happened in the short time since the babes arrived. Queen Selyse had arrived at Castle Black with her host, wishing to rest on her way to the Nightfort. _How convenient for her to come now, just in time to glimpse her husband's shame._ The castle began to feel stifling, for still others would join their company.

Jon Snow had only just returned from Hardhome to find that the old Maester Aemon had passed, and though he brought a pack of despondent wildlings with him—Giants among them—he seemed thoroughly disappointed with the results of his mission. Shaken, even. Melisandre could only guess what had occurred with the wildling clans in that little village, but she would get the truth from him sooner rather than later. Darkness and unrest were stirring in the North, beyond the Wall and south of it, too. She could not afford to be distracted or uninformed. Not now, when her king would be marching upon Winterfell. 

“Oh R’hllor, cast your light upon us,” the queen’s men chanted, shivering in their furs. The wind had turned colder the past few weeks. “For the night is dark and full of terrors!”

Izaak let out a keening wail at that, and Melisandre sighed in exasperation. She saw Queen Selyse frown from the corner of her eye.  _R'hllor, make this child quiet!_ It was not to be _._ Her son was hungry and cold, despite his swaddling. She'd even donned her heavy robes that morning, thinking to warm him, but to no avail. He would not be pacified now. “If you’ll continue without me, sers,” Melisandre said calmly. She stopped in front of the queen. “Your Grace,” she smiled apologetically.

“My lady,” Selyse said, but for the first time since they had spoken on Dragonstone, there was no kindness in her expression.  _She does not approve._ The Queen had not deigned to acknowledge the twins, but there was no doubt what she thought of them. For all her concessions in this matter, Selyse had grown wary from the shame—and the queen's men with her. Melisandre did not blame them. 

_First their priestess falls pregnant, impeding the king's progress, and then she bears two bastards. A strong boy, the boy the queen had always longed for, and a girl…a girl with a scarlet gaze._ It was no wonder they watched her from the corner of their eyes.

The situation was almost comical, but the priestess felt only sinking dread now. She nodded to the queen before continuing to Castle Black. Qhava drifted behind, trying to soothe Rhaedeny in Valyrian as she walked. The babe was proving more restless than her brother, impatient and harder to pacify with each passing day.

Melisandre filtered her out, momentarily distracted by the steel grey sky.  _The snows will be here hard and unending,_ she realized. They had all been avoiding the fact, but there was no denying it now. As she ascended the creaking stairs, she caught sight of the lord commander, her king, and Davos.

Jon was speaking rapidly in hushed tones, his face lined with grave concern. He stopped dead when he saw Melisandre down the corridor. The king and Davos turned, noticing her as well. Her heart began beating faster.  _Were they speaking of me?_ She feigned tranquility as she approached them.

“Your Grace,” she smiled. “Lord Commander, Ser Davos. How do you fare this day?”

Jon shifted impatiently. “Fine, thank you, my lady.” He did not return the courtesy. Ironically, Stannis seemed more sympathetic to her presence.

“He's cold, my lady,” he nodded toward the babe. “Shall a cloak be found for you?” For a moment she thought it frivolous, but then she remembered that the child required more warmth than she.

“Perhaps...” She glanced up at the king through her eyelashes. He lifted an eyebrow at her coy demeanor, but he didn’t seem offended.  _He’ll be in my rooms later,_ she thought victoriously.  _Finally._

“You had best get inside,” he said gently. “They need a feeding.” Her smile fell.

Those were not the words she wanted to hear. It was made worse by Davos tilting his head at her in such a patronizing manner.  _Yes, Onion Knight, I know how you feel about my company._

_And yet_ …what of the others? Would no one defend her voice anymore? She began to doubt it. Perhaps even Stannis's warm words during her pregnancy had been for the sake of her health and the children she carried. His Hand despised her, Queen Selyse mistrusted her, and Jon Snow only regarded her with those suspicious dark eyes. She couldn't ignore the nagging fear that she had overestimated the king's affection for her. That he was being swayed against her, before her very eyes.

Part of her realized this fear had a name.  _Jealousy._

_Stop this,_ the other part of her was quick to reprimand.  _Who do you think you are?_ _He does not belong to you. And y_ _ou do not belong to yourself, but the Lord of Light._ She dug her nails into her palms in penance. 

Yet the feeling remained. Perhaps most distressing was the king's avoidance of her bed. The situation was grave indeed, when two nights ago Stannis had physically picked her up and deposited her away from him.

"You are not recovered," he insisted, grimacing as she tried to pull him back. 

"I  _am_  recovered," she pouted, dragging his hand between her legs. "And I am so cold, and so very empty. Stay with me." But he would not. Her bed remained cold and empty, as did she.

It wasn’t that the king was inattentive otherwise. Since the birth of the twins, their relationship had been unusually peaceful, even with his neuroticism. He was certainly protective of the children, that much was obvious—though careful not to show too much attention. It would do no good if people assumed he was favouring bastards over Shireen.

The princess, for her part, seemed thoroughly unconcerned with that. She enjoyed dragging Stannis by the hand to their nursery, sneaking up to the babes every chance she had. It was difficult to sulk about the situation when Shireen was stroking their soft cheeks and tickling their little toes with awe in her eyes. Her laugh was a rare, welcomed sound in their dark world. When Stannis took notice of the siblings bonding with each other, he seemed resigned in some personal decision.

Melisandre had her theories, as did everyone else. 

Rumour had spread that the king would accept the children into his house, though he avoided—for whatever reason—the conversation that would lead to any official acknowledgement. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to stir up more tension in the household. It did not matter. Melisandre would not concern herself over such pettiness. He had been plenty reassuring in the past, after all; she was certain he would declare it before he left for Winterfell. In any case, he seemed pleased with Melisandre for her newfound interest in the childrens' rearing. 

So why did she find herself excluded more and more from his company? The rejection was a slap in the face after everything she'd endured, and it was especially alarming with the threat of winter upon them. Would her king ignore her counsel during this most vital time?

_No_ , she decided. She would no longer accept such treatment.

Instead of moving to heed the king’s advice—or command, rather—Melisandre looked between him and Jon evenly. “Tell me, these savages brought here. Are these all the wildlings that were at Hardhome?”

Jon frowned, but Stannis spoke first. “That’s what we were discussing, my lady. Apparently things ended rather disastrously.”

“There were…complications,” Jon agreed stiffly.

The priestess raised her eyebrows. “And you will be discussing this with His Grace further?”

Stannis interrupted again. “Clearly. But it’s a private matter for now.” He looked at her pointedly. Qhava shifted behind her.

“One of your advisors is included in that private matter, but not the other?” Melisandre retorted, nodding toward Davos boldly. The other men sensed the brewing storm and avoided her gaze. 

The king sighed. “Go inside.” His tone left no room for argument. She did not bother with civility, only turned on her heel to stomp away.

Izaak began wailing anew at the sudden movement, but she found she had little patience to soothe him. Even worse, back in her chamber he failed to take to eating, and she wished for nothing more in that moment than to pass him off to Gilly—or any other girl with teats, for all she cared. Instead the king barged into her rooms. He certainly wouldn’t be of help in that matter.

“Come to see your bastards?” she snapped. Stannis glared, waving Qhava outside with the children.

“What’s gotten into you?”

Melisandre stood her ground. “I’ll not tolerate this any longer.”

“Am I supposed to understand what that means?” 

“I think you know,” she retorted angrily. “You’re casting me aside, just as I predicted. My place is not in a darkened chamber.”

“Your place is where I say it is.”

“I am your advisor, Stannis. I should be  _advising_  at your side. What has changed? You said you would not hide me away. Have you forgotten so soon?" He began pacing the room irately, offering no reply. She drifted toward him in slight panic. "Have I displeased you in some way, Your Grace?”

“No. But you have children now.”

She laughed bitterly. “Oh. I thought I might be spared this speech— " 

“ _No_ ," he cut her off. "You cannot choose when to be a mother, Melisandre. You must do what is best for them.” She met his cold gaze defiantly.

"What you promised before..." 

He abruptly stopped pacing to tower over her. “It doesn't matter. Will you look around you? We have no time for this foolishness.”

She studied him for a long moment. “What happened at Hardhome?” 

Stannis refused to say at first, but at her lethal glare, he finally sighed. “Wights." The priestess felt a rush of terror.  _Servants of the Others?_ "Snow says he saw the army of the dead. Thousands in number, perhaps more. Slaughtered entire wildling clans.”

_Lord, I do not understand. Does not Your champion stand before me, Azor Ahai reborn? It must be soon that Lightbringer is tempered with true fire…else how can we overcome this darkness?_ She found she had few words to say aloud, choosing instead to sit on the bed. 

“You need to fight here,” she murmured.

He frowned. “Lord Snow said the same. Claims the threat beyond the Wall is more pressing that my northern campaign. I must take back the North from Roose Bolton, but now...Snow's men threaten mutiny for his alliance with the wildlings. He harps on me to strengthen this Wall, says it's the only true way to protect my Kingdoms.”

“He's right,” she admitted. “Will you heed him?"

Stannis watched her carefully. "Ser Davos worries about marching south in such a winter. I'd be a fool to ignore all this counsel."

_All counsel aside from mine_. "Sansa Stark will come with forces from the Vale," she rambled. "Perhaps this is for the better, my king. The Boltons will be defeated regardless. I have seen it."

"Sansa Stark?" Stannis repeated incredulously. He shook his head, eyeing her with a hint of amusement. "We will see." 

Melisandre felt offended by his condescending tone. She stood and brushed past him coolly. "I must remain with you at Castle Black.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

She sighed. “This is where the true battle will be, my king. I must be here when it hits.”

“Not with my children,” he grit out.

Melisandre turned to look at him woefully. “Send them to the Nightfort. With Shireen and the queen,” she requested. 

Stannis clenched his jaw harder, the blue-black shadow of his beard failing to conceal a gaunt countenance. "Fine. I have little choice. But we— " He shook his head. "I have decided it unsafe for them at the Wall, in any stronghold. You may remain, but the queen and children return south."

Her heart dropped. "To Dragonstone?" 

"Dragonstone has been abandoned too many months, it is all but doomed should the Tyrells lay claim. If your belief is true, Storm's End has sorcery in its walls, and it is the better choice." Stannis paused. "They'll be secured under my uncle, Ser Lomas. An Estermont, as my mother was. There are enough loyal remaining to smuggle them into the Stormlands…none better than our own Onion Knight."

Melisandre stared at him in disbelief. "You are sending your Hand so far South?" 

"We must all do our duty," he said dully. Then, to her surprise, he cradled her pale jaw in his hands. "And we must all make sacrifices, my lady. You and I are no exception." 

She shrugged out of his embrace, increasingly anxious. "You think I don't know that? This is the war I've been speaking of all along."

"It's more personal than that." 

Dark trepidation settled in her stomach. “How do you mean?” The king looked away. "Stannis?"

“Things have changed.”

* * *

"In regard to what?" Melisandre demanded. 

Jon shifted closer to the stone wall. He felt vaguely guilty for eavesdropping, but not enough to stop now. 

"The future of the children." 

There was a brief silence. "I never expected you to legitimise them, my king..."

Jon raised his eyebrows at that.  _Legitimise? A strange world that would be._

"I cannot acknowledge them as mine own," Stannis clarified.  _  
_

_Oh, gods._  

Her voice came through the wall, clear and irate. "You've had a change of heart, it seems!" 

"It's no change of heart, it's a precaution." 

Melisandre spoke calmly now, but it was a facade. "I'll speak with the queen, Your Grace, I knew this would— "

"It has nothing to do with the queen," Stannis said bluntly.

Jon heard a great clamor as something shattered against the floor.  _No gods can protect Stannis now,_ he decided. 

"So this is what you want?" Melisandre raised her voice, shrill with frustration. "I'll be known as the priestess who bore some  _soldier's_  bastards, is that what you want for me?  _For them?"_

"No," the king said sharply. "Listen now and listen well. You never bore me—or any other man—children." Silence."With my forces absent from the Stormlands, it's for their own good. No one must learn our blood runs through their veins." 

"No one will care! They are bastards!"

"You are wrong, my lady, for these are corrupt times. Legitimate, illegitimate...it no longer matters. Children are pawns. They can be used as hostages. They can become heirs of great houses, as Ramsay Snow has, as Jon Snow might have, had he been less stubborn. Don't you see? Even bastard children pose a threat, and our enemies will not hesitate to kill them." Stannis spoke with a firm voice. "In time you will understand. I once heard of Cersei slaughtering my brother's bastards, newborn and grown both, any black-haired child cut down in broad daylight. I'll not allow that to happen again, not while I live, nor after I'm gone."  

"You cannot disown Shireen," the red woman pointed out, her voice thick with a rare emotion.

The king sighed. "If I could take that burden off her, I would. Do not doubt I'd do anything to protect them from injustice." 

Jon spied Ser Davos standing outside her chamber as well. There was the sound of movement on the other side of the wall. "He's told her, then?" Davos guessed.

"That and more," Jon said flatly.

The king's voice drifted through again, quieter than before. "Their northern birth cannot be known. They'll be raised as two wards of Storm's End, unrelated to the princess. At least until the Lannisters are well destroyed."

A moment passed in bleak silence. "Truly, I cannot claim them either?" Melisandre asked softly.  

"No." 

"That's certainly for their own good," Davos muttered. Lord Snow frowned at him from the corner of his eye. The king's reasoning made sense enough to him. Even if she chose to go south with them, Stannis would likely separate them. Once people saw the red woman had children, it would be only a matter of time before they guessed their royal parentage.  _And Melisandre has her enemies as well, if that trader was any indication._

Jon reluctantly dug deeper. "You dislike her."

"That's a nice word for it," Ser Davos chuckled. 

"Yet you're tasked with protecting her children." 

The Hand gave him a hard look. "I don't punish innocents for the sins of their parents." 

_If only the world agreed with you, there might be fewer bitter bastards in Westeros,_ Jon thought.

"In any case," Davos shrugged, "the princess has made friends of them already. Gods know she deserves some happiness in her life. They'll be better off together, away from this frozen hell."  

"It's lucky you're escaping with them," Jon said dryly. 

"Aye," Ser Davos admitted. "Not glad to be leaving my liege lord's side, but…aye." 

"I don't blame you," the lord commander sighed.  _This winter brings death with it._ Just then the door was wrenched open by Stannis, in a blacker mood than usual. Neither of the outsiders attempted to cover their spying. To Jon's immense relief, he simply scowled and strode away. Lady Melisandre appeared in the doorframe a moment later. Her scarlet gaze followed the king, then caught sight of the two men lingering outside her rooms. The beautiful lines of her face turned hard. 

"Have you something to say, my lords?" 

Ser Davos was prepared. "Only informing you that our host will leave at week's end." 

Her red lips curled up bitterly. "You'll soon be free of me, ser." 

"Stannis won't, as it turns out," he retorted. Jon tensed beside him. "But yes, Dragonstone'll be free of you, and the rest of Westeros."

Her laugh was like acid. "How fortunate for the world."

"And those two babes?" Davos tilted his head. He evidently failed to notice the dampness in her eyes, for he continued. "Aye. Most fortunate for them."

The priestess's angry smile fell. For a painful moment only the howling wind filled the silence. When Melisandre spoke, her voice was even, but it seemed forced. "In the past, I have offered my condolences, for you know what it means to lose a child. I see you return the favor now, Ser Davos." With that she brushed past them down the stairs. 

Jon released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Was that necessary?" 

"It was the truth."

"Seemed more like cruelty." 

Davos looked at him sharply. "Don't fall under her spell too. You don't understand what she's capable of."

"I don't," he admitted. "I don't like her either. But a man like Stannis…he must have good reason to keep her around." 

The other man's laugh was short. "Surely you've put two and two together, boy." 

Jon glared at him.  _Don't treat me like a child,_ he wanted to say, but it would do more harm than help. He only frowned and began to make his way to his own corridor. "If you need anything for your preparations, it'll have to come from the king's supply. I can spare nothing, between the wildlings and Stannis's army." 

Davos spoke again behind him. "It's not the first time she's fallen pregnant, you know."

That caught Jon's attention. "By the king?"

Ser Davos made a noise of dark amusement. "In a way. She called it her son, but..." 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The smuggler suddenly shook his head. "Gods, never mind me. I've said foolish things enough. You're right...I spoke cruelly." Jon's frown deepened. "Just know this, from one honest man to another. Her power comes from dark forces." Ser Davos looked out over the balcony rail with a troubled gaze. "When I came back to Dragonstone, from the Blackwater…I was sure she was plotting something terrible."

"Like what?"

Davos shrugged. "My mind was not well at the time…but some burnings, I imagine. And not the prisoners condemned for treason." He sighed. "I was not invited to  _advise_ , for good reason, but I heard what she did to that poor merchant. You saw it. How she whispers in his ear and twists the king's mind."

That was nothing compared to the lingering questions in Jon's mind. "Her other son…" He grimaced at the words escaping his own mouth. "She didn't…was he killed?" 

Davos seemed taken aback for a moment, then chuckled without humour. "Killed? Not possible, I imagine. Though I'd not put it past her to burn a child, if she thought it'd please her god." His face fell somber again. "I only warn you because she's staying here. You'd do well not to trust her." He scanned the courtyard for his king, then departed with a final glance at the lord commander.

Jon was left to watch the snow as it began to fall from the grey sky, heavy and foreboding. He wondered if he'd made the right decision in allying with Stannis and the wildlings, if his men would ever forgive him for making peace with the clans who'd killed so many of their brothers, if they could even sustain so many men for long. He wondered what horror would come of this winter, if any of them would they survive—especially after what he'd seen at Hardhome. He wondered if Stannis and Melisandre would live to meet their children. 

And in the nights that followed—despite the triviality of it—Jon lie awake in his cold bed, wondering why no one ever spoke of Melisandre's first son.  

* * *

The red woman was fire itself, but she stood stoic as a statue in the frozen courtyard. For once, she could not force herself to look serene. 

Ser Davos approached her stiffly. "It's time, my lady." 

_Be calm,_  she thought.  _Don't give him the satisfaction of your weakness_. Her arms trembled only slightly as they passed over the bundle. The Onion Knight accepted the child with mild surprise.

"Don't you want to— ?" 

"No."

Davos lifted an eyebrow, but gestured for one of the servants to take Izaak. The priestess made no move toward her daughter, so Qhava hesitantly transferred Rhaedeny in the same fashion. 

After they had moved toward their host, Melisandre noticed the king out of the corner of her eye. His rigid back betrayed no emotion, as usual.  _Does he care?_ He was speaking careful instruction to the Onion Knight, though what, she knew not. Her observation was disturbed by the Princess Shireen shuffling past her.

"Farewell, my lady," she offered, a kind look softening her scarred features. 

"Princess," Melisandre summoned a smile in return. "The Lord's blessing go with you. Do you remember all we spoke about?"

The young girl nodded. "Izaak and Rhae are my friends, fosterlings both." The recited words were clumsy on her lips, but they would suffice.

"And you'll remember my request?" Melisandre prompted. 

"That…I must never be ashamed. I am the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon." Still, the princess avoided her eyes. 

Melisandre cupped her cheek in her palm. "Your father trusts you to represent his house, princess. Already he is proud. These scars mean nothing to him, nor the Lord of Light."  _And I should know. I suffered in my own ways._ The mantra came echoing back, words she had clung to for years beyond count.  _You are perfect to the Lord, and that is all that matters._

Shireen took notice of the priestess's distracted state. "Don't worry, my lady," she confided somberly. "Ser Davos and I will protect them." 

_Oh._ Melisandre felt a strange weight in her chest. "I know you will, princess." Shireen tensed slightly when she noticed her mother walking toward them.

"That's enough idle talk, Shireen," the queen said. It was cue enough for the princess to find her horse. Selyse turned back to the priestess, an unreadable expression upon her weary face. "I know not when we'll meet again, my lady."

Melisandre smiled sadly. "R'hllor alone knows. But I humbly pray He grant his protection over Your Grace."  _Forgive me,_ she wanted to say.  _Forgive me for everything._ Instead she took a calming breath. "I ask of you, my queen," she said evenly. "See they are raised in the faith."

Selyse considered her with that same apprehension, then gave a short nod. "Children should know the truth, so they may strive to serve the Lord…more faithfully than those before them." With that she turned to find her husband and bid him a stiff farewell.  _It is nothing,_  Melisandre told herself. She clenched her fists in the crimson of her robes, the velvet spilling from her fingers like dark blood.  _Nothing._ Stannis paused by the children for a moment, long enough to return Shireen's enthusiastic embrace, then made his way to where she stood by the castle stairs. 

"You told me I cannot choose when to be a mother. Yet it seems Your Grace has chosen for me." She stared straight ahead, eyes following the horses as they grew more distant.

Stannis clenched his jaw. "You'll learn, in time, that being a mother means making difficult decisions."

_I will never learn, for I will never be a mother. I_ _am but a servant of R'hllor. And this is a petty world, with silly distractions at every corner. I'll not bother myself over this._ That did not stop her voice from ringing into the dead air.

"I wish you had just let me hate them."  _It would hurt less_ , she wanted to add; instead she reminded herself that this pain was nothing. Bitter tears began stinging her throat.  _It is nothing,_  she thought desperately. _Nothing. Nothing at all._ And it was foolish to blame him. None of this was his fault. Still, when the king looked at her sadly, she could not meet his blue eyes.

"We cannot choose when it comes to our kin. Blood is a bond far stronger than love or hate." She didn't know whether he meant it as a chastisement or a comfort. Evidently it was the latter, as he tentatively stroked her pale hand. The horses had disappeared, and now only dark skies remained on the horizon. Melisandre turned her cheek away when the king reached up to caress it.

"If I may return to the castle?" she asked dully.

"My lady— " Stannis began. She finally looked at him, her hard gaze silencing whatever sentiment he had been trying to express. He nodded after a moment. 

And so the priestess made her way across the white ground, up wooden stairs, and into the lonely sanctuary of her room, and then she bent over her flames as if her bones were crooked.

Only then did she allow herself to cry.


	5. PART FIVE | The Weight of Duty

[ _ _ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/142219720984/melisandre-of-asshai-%EF%BE%89-%E3%83%AE-%EF%BE%89-because-i)

* * *

_One stitch in, one stitch out._  Red thread moved ever more swiftly, glinting with the light of the fire. 

_My eyes are burning,_ she thought.  _Have I gotten embers in them?_ The priestess shifted in her chair, glancing at the fire.  _No. No embers._ The flames danced with blessed heat, but they offered little by way of visions tonight—or any other night, for that matter.  _Is it fatigue?_ Melisandre sighed, forcing her attention back to her work.  _Yes, that is it._ _I am tired._ It was not that she really needed to focus on the sewing. Rather, as the weeks bled together and the nights grew longer, she craved distraction.

Her eyes began burning again, but she ignored it. 

The first two months were admittedly the most difficult. Try as she might to block out the pain, her body felt the loss acutely. Each ache was a solemn reminder. Beneath the tight trappings of a red bodice, her breasts ached with milk. Her cheeks felt raw from mourning, from those tears which soaked her pillow each night without fail. But she would not admit that—not even to herself. Instead she forced her feet to glide about the castle as if she'd never been with child in her life.  _It is nothing,_ she'd remind herself, and then she'd flash her captivating smile at whomever she needed to intrigue that day.

In the cold nights, however, she could allow the smile to falter. In the cold nights only the needle and thread could see her, and they already knew she was human. They could accept that her pale forehead was marred by lines of exhaustion. Sleep was certainly not an option, but when all else failed, monotony was comforting. So she sewed. 

"My lady?" 

Melisandre blinked. "Your Grace," she murmured, slightly taken aback. Stannis had not visited her chambers in many moons. Now he stood rigid and tall in the doorframe, clutching a handful of battered letters. His lean form was withered gaunt beneath the burden of winter.

_And what news does he bring me?_

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Stannis had grown just as restless as she.

Winter pushed upon the Wall, with no sign of the army of the dead as Jon Snow had claimed at Hardhome. It was a stagnant time, and the trepidation had the entire castle on edge. She persuaded her king to continue preparing for the Long Night with Lord Snow. However, everyone was running out of patience, the tension made worse by Stannis incessantly grinding his teeth at them. Supply lines quickly fell into a dire state. Despite careful negotiation with the North, the Wall was forced to limit its rations. The Night's Watch had grown irritable with the presence of the king's army, and the wildlings were hardly more cooperative. Nine out of every ten had bent the knee to Stannis, and for all this hard-earned victory, they were no more pliable to command. 

Melisandre, for her part, felt a twinge of dread in the pit of her stomach. There was jealousy; that much she had confessed. But this new fear was far more potent. The brutally honest part of her whispered its name.  _Doubt._  And the more she entertained it, the worse it became.  _What use are sorcery tricks when the fire is empty?_   _What use a glowing sword with no heat?_

Often she would watch her king from the corner of her eye, asking herself where she had gone wrong. The answer was clear. She had forgotten the sacrifice she intended on the beach of Dragonstone. She had been led astray from her vital work. 

_I know I have failed. I will do what I must, but…_

More and more she felt the Lord's anger in the ruby at her throat.  _Stop avoiding the inevitable,_ it commanded her, branding a punishment upon her pale skin. But she felt too weak to correct the grave errors she had made. Too weak, too sinful, and too afraid. The Lord's fire was no longer displaced by another in her womb, but what did it matter? She still felt as crazed as a street harpy. 

Several months this went on. Long, lonely months of painful unease and bitter fighting and a cold bed.

The tenuous routine shattered when the king reached a tense compromise with Lord Snow. To her shock, he agreed to send limited provision to the armies of the East and the North. These men would take Winterfell in Stannis's name, but he would have to appease them in return—mountain lords, tree gods, and all.

Melisandre was furious. "This is the clearest trap set by any! They want to rebel once more!"

"They want  _peace_ ," Jon corrected.

Stannis was grinding his teeth all the while. "Aye. The North is weary of rebellion, thanks to Robb Stark's foolishness. Once they have their lands, they will bend the knee to my authority. All they desire is their bloody  _independence_  back." He shot Jon a pointed look. "Make no mistake. I will not give them their independence. But I will grant them protection to live in their old ways."

"Old ways," the priestess spat. "And you ally with this barbaric heresy. Next you will renounce the Lord!"  _And me._ She slammed the door on her way out of his solar.

Other times her madness was even more pitiful. When the fifth moon began to wane, she stormed boldly into his bedchamber. "Half a year you avoid me. Do you no longer favor my company?" she demanded. 

The king froze in his supper, clenching his jaw at her impudence. "I only thought to spare you  _mine_. You are in a distressed way these past months."

"I see," was Melisandre's cool response. A tense moment passed. "Is it not this— " she laughed without humour— "this eagerness to compromise with the North? You seek northern comfort, as I am too  _distressed."_

Stannis pulled a sour face, owing nothing to the lemons in his water. "I am certain I miss your meaning, my lady."

"Then let us make it clear, right this moment," she retorted. "You've found another to serve you."

He blanched. "You dare— ?"

"When you avoid me like a pestilence, what else am I to do?"

"Gods, no chance of  _that!_ Stannis Baratheon calling for a woman, that's the day whores flee the fucking brothels!"

"You do not deny it!"

Stannis stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You forget your place, to think you should even care! Have you gone  _utterly_  mad, woman?" 

Melisandre promptly burst into tears. After a stunned moment, the king's fists fell to twitch helplessly at his sides. "Yes, I must have," she wept. "I cannot fathom otherwise..." Suffocating anxiety began to fill her lungs and throat. " _You_ cannot fathom why I might possibly care. Why should you? After all, I have only given you my  _life_. I've only torn my body apart at your command, borne your sins and your fine broken promises, and for  _what!_ To be separated from mine own? To be some shameful secret, shunned and discarded by you? Yes, tell me how I might care  _less_ , for I would much prefer to feel nothing! Am I so damaged, so defiled and cursed, that I should simply be immune to love and hate and despair? Well? Am I?  _Tell me!"_

The king stared in horror as his most assured companion was reduced to hysteria. "I do not understand," he confessed. "You continue to screech that you are my councillor, yet you accuse me of such…obscenity...as if you..."

"Why must men always pin a purpose on me?" she whispered, scrubbing wretchedly at her cheeks. "Can you not simply... _"_ His eyes widened in dawning comprehension, then, but she fled the room before he could witness her further humiliation.

The following night, when the moon was but a sliver in the sky, the righteous king dragged himself to her rooms, as desperate as he'd been after the Blackwater. "My lady," he entreated. His lady did not desire his explanations. He forced the door open anyway, rough hands finding her and coaxing her to understand. "You must know how I worship you," he said hoarsely. Her thighs trembled as he clutched at her, white skin bruising under sharp angles and possessive kisses, blasphemy spilling too freely from his lips. "My red goddess," he implored. "Broken or not, mine only…" Melisandre suddenly recalled why she'd never made it off the beach of Dragonstone. His attentions left her sated yet pleading for more. Like two sparrows they coupled, tangled and bent over the edge of her bed, until the crescent moon had dipped back to earth.

The euphoria was short-lived, choked out by a regretful panic. R'hllor was a merciful god, however. He saw that she bled the next month. Melisandre had sighed with relief, tearing her bedclothes off and singing praises to the Lord. Still, it was all the warning she needed.

"My supply is too low to take precautions, my king." She handed him a list of herbs.

He only sighed. "These are rare. There is no way to obtain them here, not with winter upon us." 

The realization was most distressing to Melisandre. She rummaged through her chest with impatient hands, slamming the lid closed once she realized the supplies were all but depleted.  _Lord, I require my sorcery back now, and fully,_ she thought dryly. She was right to rebuke herself for being so demanding of Him, but the fact remained: if she could not rely on her powders, she needed all the genuine magic she could summon.

It was such that the next time Stannis came to her bedchamber, she suggested other acts of consummation. He was offended by each one. Likewise was he offended by the idea of finishing elsewhere—nevertheless, that is what they resorted to. She did not mind it so much. Her king was reliable enough to control his release, having repressed it his whole life, and in any case, she still found enjoyment in the act. It was enough for a time, but Stannis could only bear the shame so long. Before, he could blame their sin on a complete lack of judgment. Now he was devising the sin itself, and despite her reassurances, his conscience had begun to turn against him. 

"It is base and unclean," he decided, grimacing as she calmly wiped the evidence from her thighs.

"It is untidy regardless," she pointed out with a wry smile. "You just usually do not see it." Stannis did not appreciate this candid speech. He retreated far from her rooms, avoiding the temptation altogether. Her bedchamber was still in the King's Tower, yet he seemed a thousand worlds away. It was maddening. Distraction became all the more crucial.

The icy balcony called her, so it was there she drifted each night, but only after her fingers were bleeding from the needle. Numbness sank into her bare skin as the minutes turned to hours.  _Red,_ she prayed absently.  _A red dawn, or a red sword..._

It was not to be. Not at this place. If ever the sun battled through the clouds, it was a dull, bleak grey.

* * *

"My lady," Stannis repeated, concern etched into the exhaustion on his face. "Perhaps you should rest?"

_Rest?_ The priestess found herself humming. "I have no need of rest," she managed. 

"At the least, don't you ever tire of stitching pockets into your sleeves?" It was a pointless question. They both knew the sense of security it provided her, and it was beside the point to pass it off to a servant. Stannis watched her with gentle eyes, following the graceful motions, down to each slender white knuckle as it flexed and relaxed. "Did your mother teach you?" he asked suddenly. 

Melisandre's song faltered, her gaze locked on the dark satin in her lap. "I— Everyone stitched in my…house. It was…" He held up a hand, regret passing over his drawn face. 

"I am sorry, my lady. I should not have."

She offered a smile. "There is nothing to be sorry for, my king."

"Very well," he sighed. "Perhaps—will you speak with your guest? He arrived mid-noon."

"Guest?" she muttered, preoccupied by the needle and its memories.

"Have you forgotten? Robert's...priest of Myr?"  _Ah. Thoros._ It was a conversation she had been dreading. It was necessary all the same. Melisandre stretched, though it was somewhat improper to do so in the presence of a king. 

"We'll speak on the morrow," she murmured into her sewing. Stannis lifted an eyebrow, clenching his hands restlessly. 

"In that case, my lady, you might counsel me." She had little say in the matter, apparently, as he began to pace the length of her chamber. "Littlefinger's report was true, though it'll take more for me to trust his word. Cersei's bastard married the Tyrell girl last year, the same my brother wedded. She's already borne of a daughter. Tywin Lannister is dead, so Cersei has little choice but to ally with the girl queen and her house once more. Mostly there is hope of a son, another bastard to be called  _Baratheon,_ " he spat. "Now they control King's Landing with the help of this...faith militant." Stannis sighed. "At the end of it all, they realize they have a common enemy."

_I don't care to hear any of this,_ Melisandre thought, but she would oblige him anyway. "The true lineage of House Baratheon?"

"Of course. But Cersei fears the North as well, with the Boltons certain to fall. She's caught onto Littlefinger's schemes." He frowned. "Of course I do not trust his angle either. He claims to work against the Lannisters, but where does that place his loyalty? Only in himself. He clearly means to take advantage of the mess in the North. How, I know not. He cannot take Winterfell and keep it for himself."

_He can if he has Sansa Stark._ The priestess set aside her work. They had learned too late who was behind the armies of the Vale—there was no withdrawing support at that point. Stannis was obviously discomfited by the alliance. Baelish was a dishonest man, an upstart who—until recently—had served usurpers for his own advancement. That would leave an enduring mark upon his name, in Stannis's eyes.  _My stubborn king,_ Melisandre thought. She did not feel the cold, but she pulled a scarlet robe around her body as he continued.  _He still does not trust my visions about the girl..._

"He cannot keep it by force. No one will follow Littlefinger once his armies return south. And he is quite mad if he believes I will reward him with the North..." Stannis stopped pacing to study her. "I believe you should sleep." 

She glanced up at him, knowing he saw the dark circles under her eyes. "Is that a command?" It was a sincere, if not dull, inquiry. 

"If it need be," he admitted. There was a long silence. The king sighed again, kneeling before her chair with his own weariness. "You are so grieved, my red shadow." Melisandre found the energy to smile. 

"I am not grieved, your Grace."

He caught her face in his large hands. "You are," he argued, likely more sharply than he had intended. He quickly loosened his grip. "Do not lie to me. I know what day it is." Melisandre's eyebrows knit together, eyes flickering back to the fire as he continued. "I sent a raven last week, ensuring they have their gifts." She was glad for that, at least.

It was her childrens' first name day.

"What did they receive?"  

Stannis grimaced. "This letter says— " He shook a parchment. "Ser Davos has abandoned his duties as Hand to carve trees, it would seem. Fine gifts, and a noble endeavor, though Shireen writes of mixed reactions."  

For the first time the priestess found her interest captured. "How so?"  

"Rhaedeny enjoys her wooden hawk, but mostly for bashing her brother over the head with." The corner of Melisandre's mouth curled upward despite the circumstances. The king's own subtle smile warmed the air, but it was bittersweet. "Shireen says they've begun to walk. She reads to them the great legends of Westeros each night. My wife does not entirely approve."  _Of her daughter, or mine?_ Melisandre tightened her robe as Stannis took his own seat by the fire. Neither said anything for a long while. 

"What do you think they look like?" she ventured, voice quiet as a winter morning.

He leaned his head wearily against the chair back. "We know they are black of hair, as Baratheons are wont to be. The trait may yet prove problematic," he said dryly. "I don't know, otherwise. Shireen says Izaak is quiet. Slight of figure. And Rhaedeny…" He chuckled. "Even so young, she is fiery as her mother."  

Melisandre glanced over at him, her heart beating in a strange rhythm. "You imagine her like me, because she uses her toy animals as weapons?"

"I did not say that."  

"You did not have to," she grumbled, rising from her chair to stir up the fire. Stannis regarded her with amusement.

"I only meant you are likewise dangerous when provoked." The priestess turned at that, eyes dark. He did not look away as she approached his seated form. 

"Is that so?" she asked softly, hands skimming the arms of his chair.  _R'hllor, forgive me_. It had been far too long since she'd played this game. Even now she felt so lost, as if she were suffocating under the weight of her duty.

The king had evidently reached his breaking point as well, gripping her thighs as she straddled him boldly. "Most dangerous. We should not," he demurred dutifully. Still, his hands found the heated skin beneath her red silks. "Must you always be burning?"

Melisandre sighed. "I burn for  _you._  Do you feel the same, my king?"

He seemed taken aback by her words. "Yes," he admitted, allowing her to pull at the laces of his breeches. "I need you."

"Then take me, and fully, else I shall never see the end of this delirium." And so he did. She began to pray in that fevered, mad part of her.  _For all I intend to do, my king…f_ _or all I have yet to do..._

When they reached their pleasure together, she clung to every drop of him. 

_Will you ever forgive me?_

* * *

 You do not belong to yourself. 

_I know._

You do not know. You never knew. Never learned. 

_No—I am faithful—_

Show me. When the mockingbird flies to you, your time is run dry. 

_I swear it now, I can find another way before then, another way to prove—_

Enough. Long ago I saved you, chose you above all others. Was I wrong to do so?

_No, but this pain—this pain is too much—_

You are quite contrary as of late.

_Because I am not strong enough._

In the past you have begged for freedom. But never like this.

_I—I wish to end it now. Truly._

Go on, then. You may try. How many veins have you opened in the attempt? So many over the years. 

_But I never thought to remove the spells…if I did now, I would be successful..._

Yes, and then…? Your life will have meant nothing. 

_My soul will be nothing if I do what you ask._

Then think of who you fight for. A merciful mother would not leave this world, would not leave her daughter with a curse. 

_Curse?_

Yes, your curse. Or shall we still play fantasy?

_Please, I know You...You are not cruel…You are light and goodness, loving and kind..._

I can be those things. But only to those who obey. 

_It is just…I believe—I love—_

You were not made to love. 

"Perhaps not," she whispered, clenching her eyes against the agony at her throat.  _Please, please just make it stop—_

"Quiet," someone hissed. "It's the red harlot."

In an instant, every voice fell silent, both in and outside of her head. Melisandre allowed her eyes to open, though she steadfastly ignored the men at the end of the corridor. Her eyes fell instead upon the dark sky. 

This emotion was not fear. No, she had never been afraid of mortal men. The threat of her power—and the king's wrath—would be enough to keep them at bay. Still, they took their amusement from a distance.  _There's the mad one,_  they muttered, as they always did when she walked about the castle grounds _._   _Clutching at her choker, standing in the frozen wind. Staring at her precious fires. Staring at nothing. Praying feverishly to the god who's abandoned her._

One young ranger was bolder than the others. "Priestess," he called, shaking his dark hair from his face. "It is too early to end your night rest. Could it be you require male company in your chamber?" 

Her lips curled up despite her distress and his crassness. "That is the last thing I require." The boy took it as an invitation, walking closer with a wide grin. 

"Aye? Does your stern king dissatisfy you as of late?"

Melisandre turned her dry gaze to him. "You had best return to your post." It was more a command than a suggestion.

"I have a better idea," he announced, sidling up to her slender red form.

One of his companions groaned. "Leave her, Rodrik."

He did not. A dirty hand brushed her upper arm, his green eyes flickering up to hers. "I think what you need is a good fucking," he confided.

Melisandre's scarlet eyes sparkled with amusement. "By you, dear lad?" 

Apparently he had expected her to be intimidated. "Aye," he said defensively, straightening up taller. "I see how lonely you are. And if I know women, they need a damned prick from time to time." She finally pulled her arm from his touch, but he went on to angle his head toward her middle. "If you're lucky, you'll get another bastard in you as well." Melisandre's gaze turned murderous in a matter of seconds. 

"Hold your bloody tongue, Rodrik! This is a lady!"

Rodrik held up a hand to his more sensible companion. "A lady?" he snickered, considering her with a dark look. "I don't think so. A right whore if I ever saw one." She met his gaze without wavering. "In that case," he ventured, "you need to see my coin before I see your bed, is that it?" He reached hastily into his pocket, then pressed the coin into her hand. A split second later, he yanked back his arm with a howl.  _"Fuck!"_  She remained calm as he held up his fingers, charred and blistering. "You— " he lifted disbelieving eyes toward her. "Bloody cunt!"

_It is well I finished the pockets in these sleeves,_ she thought. 

"What is going on here?" 

Rodrik was slightly doubled over, clutching his damaged hand. "This witch just did her sorcery on me," he hissed.

Lord Snow marched closer. "Seven hells," he muttered, dark eyes darting between the boy and the priestess. "D'you  _want_   Stannis to castrate you? Leave the lady be." 

Rodrik sneered. "Then tell her to get out of my way. Better yet—any day you can send this whore back south. _Lord Snow._ "

Jon's young face was lined with fury. "I hope you do not presume to give orders. Do well and take a page from Janos Slynt's book." Rodrik sobered slightly at that. "Go," Jon snapped. "And gods help you if the king sees you touch her." Jon did not seem to realize his own subtle declaration of loyalty. It went without saying, of course; the lord commander hardly hid his political inclinations these days. Stannis's word was law at the Wall. The reminder was threat enough for Rodrik, who stalked away clutching his hand. Jon sighed, leaning wearily over the railing.

"You'd do better to have your crippled guards with you." 

Melisandre regarded the courtyard calmly. "You need not feign concern for me, Lord Commander. I know you mistrust me here."

A frown cut deeper into his face. "It is not a matter of concern or trust. You are a guest at my stronghold. A lady, no less. It is upon my honour to ensure you safe shelter." He seemed shocked when her melodious laugh filled the air. 

"Yes…" Her gaze held no malice. "You are so like my king," she explained. 

To her further amusement, Jon changed the subject. "What do you hope to find in the sky?"

"The Lord's light, of course."

"You may be looking a long time," he said dryly. "No sun in winter." Her composure barely cracked.

"I have been looking all my life. I can wait a while longer." She turned her unnerving gaze to him.  _There is a power inside him_ , she thought.  _Perhaps I can draw fire from him, bind another true shadow..._ Jon began to squirm under her scrutiny.  _No. He is too young, and too valuable in this war to weaken._

_Unless…_

No. She already knew whom the Lord had chosen. Melisandre blinked, turning back to watch the grey sky. 

"The one true God is a god of justice, Jon Snow. We must be strong enough to fulfill His plan, no matter how difficult that may be."

Jon pulled a grimace. "Why do you tell me this?" 

Melisandre smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "You have known a difficult life, as have I." The smile finally wavered. "Take comfort. When one is taken...it is because two were given in the first place." 

"Is that a threat?" 

The priestess looked back at him in surprise. "No. It is simply the truth." A long moment passed as Jon regarded her with distaste.

"I'll leave those riddles for the  _chosen_  ones, then."

As he walked down the creaking stairs, her ruby began to burn steadily. Melisandre dug her nails into the wooden rail. How many hours she stayed in that position, she did not know. Crippling doubt kept her anchored, pulling her down, its weight growing heavier by the second.

_I am going mad after all._

"My lady?"

She was startled by the king's hand upon her waist. "Good morrow, your Grace."

Stannis frowned, cupping her cheek with his free hand. She leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his bare, calloused fingers. "Did that vulgar fool touch you?" he demanded. 

_Jon…?_ _Oh. Rodrik._ A smile ghosted her ruby lips. "I do not fear little boys, my king." 

His stormy eyes narrowed. "Answer me."

_Neither do I wish to see a boy lose his hand today._  "He did not," she lied. _  
_

"Good." He pulled away from her slightly. "You will confer with your priest, then? What do you need with him?" 

Melisandre avoided his eyes, smoothing her hands boldly up his chest. "I do not wish to speak of boys or priests…" 

The king raised an eyebrow. "Then what?" 

"Nothing," she declared, resting her cheek against his leather jerkin. Hands tentatively came to encircle her, prompting her eyes to flutter shut.

His voice, oddly hesitant, broke her reverie. "Sometimes you feel…" Her heart began pounding, as it did every time he broached this topic. Stannis sighed and ran a hand very slowly up her spine, as if studying each curve and ridge. "Sometimes you feel more delicate than you appear, Melisandre." Panic seeped freely into her veins now. "Like a statue looming atop a hill, and you don't realise the statue is actually slight, until you climb the hill to reach it…"

"There is no dawn today," she murmured, desperate to avert him. 

Her words effectively caught him off guard. "No dawn?" he asked dryly. "Do not be foolish. The day is well begun." 

The priestess clutched his solid form tighter. "I am sure you are right, my king." A moment passed as the wind whipped around them. "But it is not red…"

"Red, my lady?" 

She did not respond for a long while. "Don't you remember? It was a red sun, the day we met on Dragonstone."

Stannis pulled back in alarm, hearing the tears in her voice. "Are you quite well?"

"No," she admitted. "But the pain will be worth it in the end. I know it will, my king."

His expression was unreadable, even to her. Eventually he sighed, gathering her into his arms again. "My mad, red shadow."

* * *

"Valar morghulis." 

The High Valyrian felt easy on her lips, so unlike the harsh dialect she spoke with Qhava—the one she had all but wiped from her memory. 

"Valar dohaeris," Thoros drawled, though she saw the mistrust in his gaze. 

Melisandre did not bother with any further pleasantries. "I need you to retrieve someone."

"For you? Truly, my lady, I should leave my work to do that?"

Melisandre rolled her eyes. "I do wonder why you come so far north. It must be you guard firewood from forest animals. Certainly not gambling and whoring."

The priest chuckled. "I once failed in my mission to King Robert. But my men do honest work here." He gave her a pointed look.  _"They_  do not fall into sin with Robert's brother." 

_Don't you dare judge me,_ she wanted to say.  _Hypocrite._ "R'hllor guides me to His champion, and I serve. As needed." 

Thoros snorted. "You serve Him your way, I'll serve Him mine." He considered her with a wary eye. "You know, my lady…I, too, have heard of Azor Ahai." He paused. "But not a man. A silver queen." 

"You spend too much time with the smallfolk and their stories."

Thoros lifted an eyebrow. "Have you not heard about the High Priest?" Melisandre froze. "He preaches of this girl across the Narrow Sea. He says she is come, reborn amongst dragons." Thoros glanced at the window, then back at her with sudden interest. "Did you know Benerro in Essos?"

Melisandre somehow found her voice. "No."  _Lies and fables_. _Nothing more._ She folded her hands in front of her. "Return to your...brotherhood in the Riverlands. Either way, you are heading south, where there is someone I need. It is not so much to ask." Thoros sighed with unnecessary force, but allowed her to press a tightly sealed letter into his hand. "The details. You will show this to the castellan, to confirm that my king sends for this person."

"And what?" He asked wryly. "Smuggle  _this person_  up to this Wall? Do you realize what a damned pain that is?"

"You will be handsomely rewarded."

Thoros smiled. "Aye, I imagine I will. Who am I looking for?" 

She clenched her fists inside the folds of her robes. Before she could open her mouth to answer, Devan poked his head unceremoniously into her rooms. 

"My lady?" Melisandre jerked around, growing more paranoid by the second. "The king calls for you," he panted.

"Now? Why?"

"There is a lady arrived at Castle Black."

_A lady..._ Melisandre's heart began to pound. "Is she red of hair?" 

The squire shifted in surprise. "Well—yes." Dread settled in the pit of her stomach.  _Not just a lady then._

Somehow, somewhere in the frozen air, a mockingbird had landed.

* * *

Sansa Stark was very beautiful.

The priestess had always known that, but it was all the more clear without the haze of the flames. Melisandre's heart was pounding, though she did not quite understand why.  _A mockingbird, Lord, or a wolf…?_

It did not matter. She was a Stark, she was alive, and Stannis Baratheon was at a loss. 

"Where is Littlefinger?" 

"Further south, your Grace. Overseeing the campaign."

The king found this amusing. "And you trust him?"

Sansa peeled off her gloves in a slow display of grace. "In this particular task…yes." 

He laughed shortly. "Littlefinger is no military man."

"I am aware," she said coolly. "I would not leave the southron armies without appointing capable commanders, your Grace. But winter is come, and times are difficult. Lord Baelish is simply negotiating with this lord or that."

For a moment, Stannis seemed taken aback. His men shifted in the stifling solar, but Melisandre remained still, trying not to attract attention from her place by the fire. The king finally seated himself at the head of the oak table, shaking his head. "Lady Lannister— "

"Lady Stark," the girl corrected. Stannis paused to raise an eyebrow.  

"You are married to the imp, are you not?" 

She lifted an auburn eyebrow in return. "Never in the fullest sense, your Grace."

_This is all getting to be rather fun,_  Melisandre decided. Stannis cleared his throat awkwardly, then presented his next grievance.

"You would speak as a Stark? Then you would acknowledge your brother as a usurper."

To everyone's surprise, the young woman took a deliberate step forward. "I would acknowledge a great many things, your Grace." Her gaze was pointed.

"As you would," he prompted.

"The North will never be yours." The room came alive with murmurs of protest. "And without the North…" Sansa tipped her chin up boldly. "Unless, of course, the Wardenness of the North supports your claim." 

"'Wardenness?'" Stannis asked incredulously, glaring at his bristling knights. 

"The thought of a woman ruling the North…is that offensive to your Grace?""

He snorted. "Rather, the thought of a Stark girl, a Lannister in all but consummation, attempting to make threats of her  _rightful king— "_

Sansa smiled. "I  _will_  claim Winterfell, your Grace, as my birthright dictates. And the North will follow my lead. On the other hand, I'll not make the same mistakes as my brother, for I do believe your claim is valid. My father died for that truth."

"That should be enough," Ser Richard Horpe insisted sharply.

"Mayhaps," Sansa admitted. "But the North follows its own. It must see your Grace is capable of compromise in years of winter. That you offer security...and hope."

_Stannis is the last to inspire hope in the peoples' hearts,_ Melisandre thought dryly, but her king did not seem entirely offended by Lady Stark's suggestion. He glanced at Melisandre for the first time—seeking her reaction or her counsel or something else, she knew not. But the priestess could only mull over that word;  _hope, hope, hope_. It seemed an ironic and ominous echo now. 

_When the mockingbird flies, your time is run dry._

Suddenly Sansa's gaze fell upon Melisandre as well, as if she had just noticed the king's red shadow in the room. Every eye was upon her, now. It seemed some kind of deliberate message. Like they had pierced her lungs with a thousand arrows, yet were asking her to recite a whole book of prophecy.  _Did I miss something?_   For the briefest moment the priestess saw another girl in Sansa's place—a girl who was red in a different way. 

_Oh._

Stannis broke the silence. "Well and good. But Winterfell is not yet won." He tore his gaze from Melisandre, then sat back warily. "Why have you come, Lady Stark?" 

Sansa considered the priestess a moment longer. There was the soft hint of youth in her expression, an innocence and hope long suppressed. She finally looked back to the king.

"I wish to see my brother." 

* * *

_It is the only hope,_ she thought.  _Forgive me._ _  
_

"Do you recall the legend of Azor Ahai, my king?"

"Not especially," Stannis said bluntly, drumming his fingers restlessly against the table. His mind was far away from her, she knew. On Sansa Stark and Winterfell and a ten-years-long winter. But time had run dry, and she had to act. 

"You remember how it begins, as I told you? Darkness lay over the world, and Azor Ahai was the hero chosen to fight against it. To fight the darkness, Azor Ahai needed to forge a hero's sword..." Her red silks rustled as she moved to lean against his desk. The solar seemed so empty, so silent. 

"He labored for thirty days and thirty nights until it was done. Yet when he went to temper it in water, the sword broke. The second time he took fifty days and fifty nights to make the sword, even stronger than the first. To temper it this time, he captured a lion and drove the sword into its heart...but once more the steel shattered."

She had finally caught his attention now. "The third time…it was with a heavy heart. He worked for a hundred days and nights until it was finished. This time, he called for his beloved Nissa Nissa, and asked her to bare her breast." Melisandre watched him carefully. "And then...he drove his sword into her living heart. Her soul combined with the steel of the sword, creating Lightbringer. And with it he forged a new dawn, and man no longer feared the Great Other. Mothers no longer saw their babes lying cold in the snow, and boys no longer rose up with pale skin and blue eyes to kill their brothers."

She clenched her skirts so tight the fabric nearly tore. "Do you see, my king? A terrible price, and yet...the salvation of the world.  _Hope_." Stannis eyed her warily. "Sometimes the greatest sacrifice is needed, to become who we must," she finished softly. "One we love, and one born of king's blood…this is the offering needed to temper Lightbringer."

Stannis said nothing for a long moment. When he rose slowly from his chair, there was an unreadable expression upon his face. "If you suggest what I believe you suggest…know it is treason. And know I advise you to say nothing more." 

"She is the key to this winter, my king— "

"She is my  _heir_ ," he grit out. "For the respect I bear you, for the affection we've shared, you will get this foolishness out of your head, and I will pretend this never occurred."

_He thinks…Shireen?_

"Yes, you are right," Melisandre said slowly. He seemed slightly relieved, but she was numb enough to push forward. "You speak true, my king. You cannot surrender your heir…which is why I sent Thoros for another." 

_Please, do not make me say it._

Stannis did not, but he did make her wait for what felt like hours. "You were so changed without your sorcery," he finally murmured. "Humane, somehow. How I have deluded myself. How disturbed you truly are."

Melisandre reached up to touch his jaw. "Do you doubt me? Still?" He jerked away from her delicate hand.

"You are ill of mind, my lady, and misled."

"There is no other way…you must realize your destiny before the Long Night. Winter is begun, it is only a matter of time." She grasped his arm, feeling every bit as ill as he claimed. "My king…sacrifice is never easy, or it is no sacrifice. All my life and yours has led us to this moment, to this decision. It is the only thing the flames show!" Her tone became desperate. "My power runs through her blood, my  _curse_ , you know it too— "

"Of course it does," he hissed. "You  _birthed_  her!" 

"Yes, and perhaps…" She tried to steady her rambling voice, but it wavered under the weight of the words. "This is the reason the Lord has brought her into the world. The reason she journeys here, as sacrifice for the sword, or the flames— "

That world spun then, a sharp pain pounding through her head. 

"I— forgive me," Stannis managed.

_Forgive HIM? For what?_ It was only after several moments grasping the rough floor that she realized  _what_. She watched in disbelief as the ashen stone turned red beneath her.

"You..." Her eyes lifted to his.  _You are the same as all the others_ , was the silent accusation. 

He seemed stunned by his own actions. "Forgive me," he repeated. "I raised a hand to a woman. In that I was wrong." He broke out of his stupor to shake his head. "But gods, what can I do? I  _killed_  the man who harmed you once. You are mistaken if you believe I won't do the same for my daughter."

Melisandre wiped her bloody nose upon her sleeve, arms trembling. "I am not holding a knife to her throat!"

He narrowed his eyes as the full extent of her betrayal set in. "Don't dare play innocent," he spat. "You went _behind my back_. Conspired and lied and plotted to— " His eyes fell shut. "You'd have murdered a child,  _my_  child, had you gotten your way!" 

She began to feel light-headed. "So you think to teach a lesson by _striking me?_   You may claim otherwise, but you are the same as every other vain, hypocritical man. The same as your brother."

Stannis seemed utterly grieved—though by her betrayal or his own, she knew not. "Perhaps it is true. Robert never loved his kingdoms, let alone his women or his bastards." His face hardened again. "Yet even he would condemn you now. He would mock how I've trusted far too freely, when my true queen commits treason under my nose."

The words sent a sharp pain to her chest.

Before she could respond, the chamber door was wrenched open by a restless Jon Snow. "I know it's late, Yyour Grace." He was about to launch into his concerns, but stopped dead at the sight of Melisandre scrambling to her feet. His eyes followed the dark blood staining the floor beneath her, the king graciously assisting her footing. Stannis shot the lord commander a lethal glare, who had taken to stuttering. "I— pardon. I will..." Jon frowned, then escaped the room. 

Once the door had been yanked shut, silence lay thick upon them. Stannis tore part of her robe, and she tensed, but he only used it to wipe the blood from her nose and lip. Her scarlet eyes followed his hand warily.

"I cannot serve you any longer," she admitted. 

He stopped his ministrations to study her. "Why not, pray tell?"

"Y—you are not Azor Ahai. You are only a man, and I have no need for that."

He smiled bitterly, pulling his hand away. "Well, my lady. How soon your song changes after I reject your fantasy." 

_How soon it changes after you harm me._ "I've known it a long time," she countered, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat. "But I have been so blind. I thought…if I surrendered my own happiness, my own…" She broke off, shaking her head forcefully. "I thought the Lord might lift you up then, to save this world from the darkness. I thought I would see you fulfill that destiny."

"And for that passing chance you'd have risked Rhaedeny's  _life?"_   The answer was clear. He shook his head in disbelief. "Mine own shadow, and yet...I don't know who you are." She turned away from him, eager to flee to the fire, but Stannis's voice was cold enough to chill the whole castle. "Do not think to be pardoned for this. I have a mind to carve out your traitorous heart."

"Why bother?" she hissed, not trusting herself to turn around. "Even the Lord could not do that, for I have already given every part of myself to you." She took a shuddering breath. "You can keep it all. I do not want a heart. And truly, I do not want you. Unless you'd become the saviour of this war—and I see now, that will never happen—you are nothing to me."

If Stannis was hurt by her words, he was quick to defend himself, having done so all his life. "I am many things, my lady. A child-killer is not one of them, nor will it ever be. If that is cowardice to you, so be it."

"So be it," she agreed quietly. "Perhaps I have wasted years enough."

"Then leave,  _damn you_ , before I do things more regretful." 

She closed her eyes, willing her feet to obey. "My king," she whispered. It was half a plea, half an apology. 

A long moment passed. He did not answer, so she finally forced herself to the door.

"How— ? Our own little girl, Melisandre…" 

_Our little girl was condemned the moment she opened her eyes,_  she wanted to scream.  _Why can't you see that?_ She was glad her back was to him. The tears were too shameful to witness. 

Even so, was it not obvious she blamed herself? 

Could he not recall, from the very beginning, how she'd wanted to do the merciful thing and end it? How she'd wanted to spare her daughter from demons of ice and snow, and flesh, too? Ones who would leave her bloody and aching on the floor, whether they called her  _Lot Seven_  or  _my true queen?_ She wanted to scream until it  _was_  obvious, until he understood and did his duty, and then they could mourn together as father and mother.

_There is hope,_ she told herself desperately. _There is always hope..._

But there was none, for she was not a mother. In that she had already failed, just by bringing another girl into a world which would curse her, use her, enslave her. And so she walked away, far from his devastated gaze, far from his betrayal and her own, far from the heart she'd stitched into Stannis Baratheon's sigil.

She doubted she'd ever see it again.


	6. PART SIX | The Scarlet Storm

[ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/146369547264/char-portraits-art-by-chaotic-muffin)

* * *

 

"Rhae, you will like visiting Winterfell, I think— "

"You have been there?"  

"Well..." Princess Shireen continued digging through her favored book collection, narrowly missing the servants as they loaded her trunks to the baggage train outside. "I have been North, I imagine it is all very similar. In any case, the Lord Commander at the Wall—he was raised at Winterfell—Jon Snow told me much about it."

The other girl was unfazed. She was a restless child, but not as easily excited as Shireen. The frozen land to the north certainly did not call to her. Rather, she longed for fires and temples and dragons in a land far away. Her seventh name day had barely passed, and already she was more ambitious than most women. 

"I know we hear such dark reports of the North," Shireen went on, "but the Wall is strong enough to prevail against the Others. And you were born in winter, so you won't mind the cold. But summer is very lovely, even in Winterfell, I imagine…if I stay there after the wedding, will you promise to visit me in spring?"  

The younger girl smiled. "I promise!" She made her way through the chaos in the princess's chambers, humming all the while. "Are you excited to meet your lord?" 

"Oh...well, I suppose…" Shireen tried to contain her enthusiasm, for she was a true lady now. It was not becoming for her to gossip about young lords. Or to keep company with a little girl, for that matter.

But this girl was more than she seemed. Her name was Rhaedeny Storm, and she was the princess's closest companion. 

Besides, Rickon Stark had been safely returned from Skagos. Was it such a crime that Shireen was giddy with the announcement of their betrothal? "Likewise I am eager to see dear Ser Davos, and my father..." The princess snuck another few books into an ornate chest. "Oh, I should tell you, do not be afraid of him. He is tall, and rather stern, but— " She forced the lid shut, exhaling with the effort. "Ah. There. And you will be glad to see your brother, surely?" Rhaedeny screwed her nose up. The princess laughed. "You will. A lady never shows her distaste for the men in her life." 

One of the familiar serving boys paused in his work. "Did you hear that, Rhae? You must marry me now, to be a true lady!" 

Rhaedeny made a sharp swipe at him. "I'll never be a lady, then!" He pulled her coal-black braid before dashing down the hall. At Rhaedeny's scowl, Shireen forgot her age and fell into a fit of giggling. 

"No, you will not," a sharp voice cut in.  

Both girls whirled around. The younger dipped her head. "Your Grace," she said quickly.

Selyse lifted an eyebrow as she swept through the corridor, surveying the progress of the servants. "I need not remind you, Shireen, that a Storm is a Storm."

The princess sighed. "Oh, come, mother. We were simply playing fun." Selyse turned to consider the girls, both raven-haired, yet strikingly different. 

"A lie is never harmless. Too often it leads to worse sin."

"I know well the power of a lie." Shireen had become bolder over the years. "But truly, it is for amusement. Certainly my little friend passes for a lady. Tall and graceful, black of hair— " 

"And red of eyes," the queen remarked distastefully. 

Rhaedeny lowered her gaze in shame. Shireen frowned. "My dear Rhae...perhaps you will settle yourself outside. May we ride together?" The young girl shifted, then nodded to them both. 

Selyse lifted her chin as the fosterling escaped down the dim stone corridor. "Do not stall," she said to Shireen, turning on her heel. 

"She questions everything, you know."

The queen stopped in her tracks, sighing. "Shireen, I have no patience to quarrel with you." 

"From whom does he protect them? The Lannisters are all but destroyed." Selyse began to walk away again, but the princess rounded angrily on her. "When will he acknowledge them? Sooner or later Rhaedeny will— "

The queen narrowed her eyes. "Hold your tongue, and listen well," she hissed. "Do not presume to question me, or your royal father. Bastards do not demand rights. Nor should you do so for them. You will stay out of matters which you do not understand."

Shireen watched her carefully. She was venturing into forbidden territory. "It's because of...Lady Melisandre, isn't it?"

Her mother's gaze hardened even more. "Do not repeat that witch's name here."

"Some years ago that  _name_  was most respected in our house, now the Lady— "

"She was no lady," Selyse snapped. "She never was, and neither will her bastard be." 

"Was? You believe her dead?" 

The queen shrugged slightly. "Most likely, but no matter. The Lord judges as he will."

One of the queen's men approached. "Your Graces…our host is prepared. We had best depart before the storm blows south." The queen nodded curtly to him, turning on her heel again.

"What did she do?" blurted Shireen.

After a tense moment, her mother sighed and turned wearily. More and more, her gaze seemed too exhausted to be severe. "I do not know, it was years ago," Selyse admitted. "All that matters is the offense was such your father deemed treason."

Shireen frowned, further twisting the greyscale upon her cheek. "But it seems odd that he— " She caught herself. 

"That he what?" her mother demanded. The young woman sighed.

"That he should take such drastic action against her."

Selyse laughed shortly. "For treason? He spared her life, foolish girl, that was a kindness in itself. An absurd kindness." The princess's frown deepened. "Shireen," her mother said sharply, "Your father is kind to you in his rare visits, and for this you view him kindly."

"Because  _you_  understand me so well, my lady."

The queen lifted an eyebrow at her acidic tone. "Daughters are like their mothers in many ways. You may not believe it, but I have your interests in mind, just as much as your father. I see how you hope for this marriage, by example. This son of Eddard Stark— "

"You think he will reject me," Shireen finished flatly. 

Her mother's gaze softened, thin mouth relaxing in the slightest way. "I did not say that. But you still do not understand the cruelty of this world. You fantasise and dream, but you do not see the truth." Selyse paused. "You may not believe, either...I had dreams much like you. When I was a girl I prayed to the Seven for a kind husband who would give me favors at tourneys. It was a silly dream, I know that, but the only one I had. A warm castle under the sun, and babes who would not suffer..." She smiled bitterly. "Then my wedding day was cursed by Robert's sin, and my cold husband was given that rotting island, and my only child…I could do nothing but pray as she was held over the edge of death. That was when I finally realised the truth. The Seven are fables...and the Lord had His own plan for me." The queen frowned at her hands after a moment. "You do not know your father, Shireen. Not truly. He is a fit ruler, in many respects, but as a man—he is merciless, and unforgiving, and he…cares very little for any of us. Best to learn that now."

Storm's End was eerily quiet now, with much of the household waiting outside. Before, the princess would have slinked away from such cutting words, eager to find refuge elsewhere. But she only clenched the grey wool of her skirts in her fist, looking every bit a northern lady. "You are wrong," she said. "Do you not see how he treasures me? A careless lord would discard his child at the first opportunity. The king waited seventeen years to let go of me, and he would have waited another twenty had he not found the most honourable marriage. And after the wedding…I believe he will grant me the Stormlands, the legacy of his house."

Selyse lifted an eyebrow at the assertion, but did not dispute it.

"I am the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon, and I am my father's daughter," Shireen said firmly. After a moment, she turned away to survey her now-empty chamber. "Izaak and Rhae have no titles, no land...but he loves them too, bastards or not. I saw it when they were first born."

Selyse seemed slightly taken aback, but gave consideration to her daughter's impassioned speech. "He will never favour them, Shireen. It is little to do with their status, but more on account of the sorceress."

The princess secured her cloak about her shoulders, straightening her shoulders under the shimmering Baratheon gold. "You are wrong about that as well," she said on her way out. "I remember the way he looked at their mother, as I'd never seen him look upon another."  

* * *

" _Out of the ash I rise,_ " Rhaedeny sang softly, running her hand over the coarse, black mane of her horse. Her breath made a cloud in the air, pale as the ash in her song. Would the air crumble to ash once the winter had passed, as it had in Old Valyria?  _Perhaps it will burn with something else,_  she thought. Shireen said that summer was very lovely. 

Rhaedeny tried to imagine summer. It was difficult to dream of something one had never experienced. All she knew was winter, cold and dark and harsh, as it had been her whole life. 

A familiar voice broke her thoughts. "Aye, here is the scarlet Storm…"

Rhaedeny blinked and turned, only to be swept into the arms of the red priest. "Valar morghulis," she said breathlessly, surprised by his hearty greeting. 

"Very good," Thoros praised, returning her to the damp ground with a groan. "Your accent is coming along, as I am in years."

A smile spread across her face. "I had another dream," she confided eagerly. 

"Aye, the babe and the man with the sword— "

"No, a different one!" Rhaedeny glanced at one of the guard's torches. It seemed little more than a glimmer of orange against the grey winter sky. "Two women this time, both with red hair. One— "

Thoros shouted something in Valryian to his men, patting her head absently. "Another time, little lady. This is farewell, as I won't be coming north with you." 

Her smile fell. "Why?"

"Well..." Thoros scratched his chin. "The king will be there, and he is not fond of the faith of R'hllor. It is best I return to my other missions for a while." 

Rhaedeny kicked at a patch of ice. "The king sounds a boring man," she muttered. Thoros chuckled. "Who will marry the princess to Lord Stark, then?"

He spread his hands out dramatically. "The trees, I suppose." The ice was destroyed beneath her boots, but she still avoided his gaze. "What is the matter, dear girl?" 

Her shoulders lifted slightly. "I don't wish to go north," she admitted. "I'll have to say goodbye to Shireen, and come back to Storm's End by myself, with no one to join my lessons..."

"Your brother will be returning with Ser Davos," Thoros reminded her. She pulled a sour face, scarlet eyes sparking. "Besides, you are well-learned," he laughed. "There is little more I could teach you by way of R'hllor." 

Rhaedeny frowned as his men mounted their horses. "I don't feel that way," she said sullenly. Thoros looked between her and the others for a moment. Then he bent a knee before her, pushing the maroon hood back from his haggard face.

"How would you like to see where I come from? I could take…an apprentice for a few months."

Her heart sped up. "In the Riverlands?"

Thoros smiled despite himself. "In Myr!"

Myr? _Essos?_ Rhaedeny's eyes widened like two red saucers. "I…" Her gaze dimmed as she glanced toward the royal servants, still waiting upon the princess and queen. "I don't think the queen will permit it." 

The red priest smiled dryly. "Aye, you may be right." He rose to his feet, then held his hand out to her. "So we shouldn't ask her." 

Rhaedeny's heart skipped several beats. She glanced uneasily at the line of knights and servants, but they paid her little mind.  _Of course not…they have never cared about me. I am nothing but an orphan, an illegitimate girl._ A fosterling is a burden, the queen often reminded her. _  
_

_But Shireen…_

Even the princess was nowhere in sight. If she waited to say goodbye, her chance would be gone.

Rhaedeny turned back to the priest, placing her tiny hand in his. _Valar dohaeris_ , she thought resolutely. Thoros glanced about, swiftly pulling her onto his own horse.

As he hastily enveloped her in his crimson robes, she had only one prayer—to find the red women from her dreams, and the red sword, and the red sunrise.

* * *

Westeros was too dark in the winter.

_Because you failed_.

"Tell me what to do," she begged, "Tell me where to go, who to serve…"

The answer was the same each time.  _There is only one way, and you missed that opportunity._

Eventually, Melisandre stopped asking. Her prayers were nothing more than absent thoughts as she rode through the Seven Kingdoms. After that day—a day she tried not to dwell upon—she went straight to the Stormlands, determined to speak with the queen. But word spread quickly in Westeros, pushing south with the cruel winds of winter. Baratheon bannermen stopped her long before she could see the fields of Storm's End. For a while she simply skirted the borders, waiting for her opportunity, praying for a glimpse of two lost babes.

Loneliness plagued her nights. The emotion was foreign, and discomfiting, but she could not deny the agonizing isolation she felt. Thoros had clearly been forbidden from associating with her. Her only correspondence now was her strange Volantene handmaid.

The moment Melisandre had left the king's solar, she implored Qhava to situate herself in King's Landing—to get as close to the Red Keep as possible. Many months later, she received a raven. "I have authority in the brothel of Petyr Baelish," she wrote simply. Melisandre had blinked at the parchment in disbelief. Evidently Qhava was more cunning than she had given credit for.

The priestess had no such luck with the nobility. Others soon began to recognize her. Lords whispered her name and barred their strongholds to her, long after she'd been shunned from the Stormlands. The ironic loyalty was not lost on her.  _Had_   _Stannis finally won over the people?_ It seemed so, else there would be no need for southron lords to call her  _traitor_ or  _witch._ She was reduced to resting wherever she could lie her head.

"Lord of Light, how can anyone serve You?" she whispered one night. "You ask too much. I am only a woman." She had no fire to watch for signs, and the evening sky said nothing, either. It was black and cold and much too quiet. The madness seemed overwhelming, with nothing to break up the monotony of the months. Qhava sent information when she could, when they were able to coordinate—but her letters were never more than a page of clumsy Valyrian. It gradually became impossible to find messengers to smuggle even that much. Melisandre had no gold to offer for the risk. 

_Gold._ It seemed so frivolous. 

The king had granted her a small amount. It did not last long. She was indifferent to the loss of her fine silk gowns, yet there were hot tears upon her cheeks when she sold her red robes off. Giving away one of her few possessions stung, but that was not the true reason for her tears. She would not admit what the heavy scarlet had meant to her, not even to herself. 

Now she hid herself in coarse black. The dark wool felt heavy on her skin, but it was discreet and hid the filth of the road. She supposed she was mourning, after all. Grieving for her power and the god who had abandoned her and the long summer. For the forbidden memory of warmth in her arms, two heads of raven hair and soft gurgles at her breast.  _For the man, serious and tall, who held her through the nightmares..._

At least they were alive, and happier without her. 

Her penance was not enough, after a time. People still recognized her and they still hated her.  _Well and good_ , she decided. Westeros was too dark in the winter anyway. That was how she found herself on a ship to Essos.

The sight of the Braavosi titan was strange; bittersweet and terrifying and comforting all at once. It was simple enough to slip through the free cities and ports for a time, but the further south she drifted, the more she felt lingering eyes upon her cheek and neck.  _They do not know,_ she assured herself, but the paranoia became too great. For the first time in years she glimpsed things in passing fires; a red sun, scarlet eyes she knew well…scarlet eyes that made her heart ache. 

It had been six long years by the time she forced herself back on a westbound ship. Her distracted prayers had turned into bitter accusations.

"You deceived me," she hissed at nothing in particular. The ruby burned, but it no longer chastened her. She was numb to all—searing heat, bitter cold—she felt nothing, and nothing could hurt her. Still, the dark waves of the Narrow Sea showed images more vivid and painful than any flame.  _They are not my own memories,_ she reminded herself,  _no, that girl is not me._ But the motion of the ship wore upon her, weakened her, until she found herself lowered to the damp deck, face buried in her hands and back wracked under silent sobs. That was when she finally surrendered.

_Lord, if you exist, if you are loving and good, end this madness. No more voices, no more pain. Just give me a sign. Lead me to the true Azor Ahai, if you still demand my service._ _Otherwise, grant me peace,_ _I beg of you. You saved me once before._

_Allow me to end this pain.  
_

As always, the world was silent and cold. She wept quietly, and time passed far too slowly. A grey bird dipped into the waves. Then it shook the icy water from its wings and soared back to the sky.

_The mockingbird flies freely, yet I am chained to the past, with nowhere to go._

It was a pointless envy. There were no mockingbirds in the sea, and the whole scene had been an illusion. Still, her heart skipped with a sudden, desperate hope.

_The mockingbird!_   Her thoughts ran wildly as she lifted her face from her robes.  _Yes, the mockingbird will lead me where I need to be…_ Melisandre recalled the vision she'd had a thousand years ago while walking with the lord commander.

_Alayne and the direwolf banner. Snow, grey skies, a heart tree—_

"Winterfell," she breathed. 

* * *

_A boy and a girl._

Her eyes swept calmly over the gathering before her, even as her heart pounded in fear. Knights and lords and ladies stood on either side of the tree. Orange light bathed the entire godswood in a soft glow. She fell back even further from the main crowd. All would be fine so long as she continued to smuggle herself in with the servants. Her choker and hair were concealed with the black robe, her face downcast wherever she walked.

After an expectant moment, she spotted the boy and the girl from the vision as they met beneath the heart tree. 

_Ah…_  They were being married. The girl was dressed in splendid hues of gold and silver, a twinkling stag adorning her cloak.  _A stag?_  The girl turned, and her cheek was blurred with greyscale. 

_Shireen!_

The boy was grinning and wild with auburn hair.  _Clearly a Stark_. That was when Melisandre finally spotted the mockingbird. Alayne.  _Sansa._ She was indeed beneath the direwolf banner, standing proud and tall in gleaming white. It seemed Stannis had granted her Winterfell, after all. _  
_

_And where was her king?_

There was no sign of him or the queen or Ser Davos, though she was certain they were there, hidden in front of the noblemen. Selyse must have fallen away from the Lord, to tolerate such a ceremony.

_You are one to judge,_ she thought dryly. Suddenly, her eyes fell upon the other boy. 

_Further down, a younger boy, lean and dark…_ Yes, there he stood, slightly apart from the others. His solemnity seemed out of place, but the significance was unclear to her. 

Her heart continued to pound, but she stood very still, and the snow fell in dizzying white all around them.

After Shireen had been cloaked and ushered into the castle by uproarious northerners, Melisandre braved the festive crowds in the courtyard.

"To Princess Shireen and Lord Rickon, and to their sons!" they sang. One drunken commoner stood shakily upon a table. "The North remembers! May Lady Sansa see Cersei's head on a spike!" Enthusiastic cheering followed. "And— " he tottered precariously— "I say, her king is our king! Long may he reign, he who fucked the Others in the arse— " They began to bellow a song about spring.

_Fools,_ she thought. _Ignorant of the final battle to come, the Long Night which still threatens the realms of men._ Melisandre dodged the man as he finally tumbled off his podium. 

It was a small blessing when she spotted a knight in Stark colours. "Ser, I need an audience with the Lady Protector, the Wardenness." She tried to stand like her old self, beautiful and composed and powerful. The knight rubbed his eye and looked over her figure with intoxicated confusion.

"And who in seven hells are you?"

Melisandre blinked. Then she glanced at the royal banner woven next to the Stark sigil.  _A black stag in a field of yellow_. House Baratheon, as it had been in days of old. There was no sign of the red god, no flaming heart of R'hllor.

No reminder of  _her._

"I— " she swallowed. Just then she was knocked into the ground by a whirl of black wool and auburn feathers. 

"Redwing!" A young boy scrambled to catch his hawk before she sailed straight into an ancient tree. " _Gods_ ," he lamented, then whipped around to notice the lady he had knocked into the mud. "Oh— forgive me," he stuttered, helping her kindly to her feet. Melisandre froze. She had seen those eyes before, dark and stormy and blue. She had seen this boy at the wedding...

_The boy from the vision._

"It is all right," she breathed. But he was already running to fret over his broken goshawk. "Redwing…?" she repeated. The boy looked startled for a moment, cradling a squawking pile of talons and feathers. 

"Oh— yes. Redwing." He began examining the injury with a solemn face.

"She is beautiful," Melisandre offered, feeling oddly nervous. He laughed quietly, to her surprise, though he did not look up from his study. 

"I named her after my sister. She would slap me if I called her beautiful." 

Melisandre smirked. "She has red hair?"

"No, red— " The boy stopped, looking up at the priestess again. Her heart began to pound in panic.  _Be calm,_  she reminded herself. _You appear in shadow to him._  He frowned, looking down to his hawk again. "You'd have to see her. But she's not here," he finished quietly.

Melisandre cautiously approached his kneeling form. "I am looking for Lady Sansa Stark," she said gently. "Will you tell me your name?" 

He rose with the wounded hawk in his arms. "Oh...Izaak Storm."

_Izaak._ Melisandre felt her throat tighten. _It couldn't be..._

"I don't know about Lady Sansa," he added apologetically. 

No, there was little doubt now. He was the right age— and his sister, and his eyes— 

"That does not matter," she whispered, detesting the waver in her voice. "Izaak…I must speak with your father. It is very important." Those familiar blue eyes were suspicious as he looked up at her. 

"You can't."

_R'hllor._ "Why?" _Please, say he hasn't told them of my sin..._

Izaak frowned down at Redwing. "My father is dead." 

Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. "Where is your sister?" 

"Well…the queen says…Rhae ran away. I don't know." Fury finally began to cloud her vision. "We are fostered at Storm's End," he offered helpfully. "You could speak with Ser Davos Seaworth, they are all returning south after— "

Melisandre was storming toward the royal pavilion before she could acknowledge how perilous the idea it was. Several guards promptly apprehended her. "I need an audience with the king," she snapped. "Let me through!" One of them tried to carry her off, but she mustered enough sorcery to burn his arm.

"Hells, alright! Does the bitch have a name?" 

She smoothed her ragged skirts down with a glare.  _A name…_ "Melony." He lifted an eyebrow, but grumbled and conceded to speak with the king's guard. As the men were arguing, however, she heard those familiar, sharp footsteps approaching. 

Before she could panic, flee to the shadows, fall to her knees in desperation, Stannis Baratheon himself strode through the entrance.

Her breath caught in her throat as they studied each other. For a moment no one said anything. Then Stannis smiled, and it was not truly a smile, but a dangerous, furious warning. "Escort this woman from Winterfell." 

"If these men touch me again, I will burn their hands off," she said calmly. The king turned on his heel as men restrained her from each side. She snarled at them. "Let. Me. Go."

"You are in no position to make requests," Stannis said coolly. In an instant, her rage came back full force. 

"I am not requesting anything," she hissed, thrashing against the strong arms that held her. "I am informing you that you will receive me, right now!" 

He snorted. Then, to her surprise, he came to stand in front of her. "Listen well, for I will only say it once. You will leave Winterfell, and if my men so much as see you in the North again, you will be...escorted back to Essos. Whatever it takes to rid my family of you. You will not ruin this happiness for my daughter." 

"Which one?" He froze. "Your Grace, which one?" she repeated. His blue eyes narrowed, but there was no longer anything he could do to frighten or hurt her. She laughed in his face. "Best dismiss your men. People will talk." The guards shifted amongst themselves but wisely said nothing. "Do you know where Rhaedeny is?" she demanded, trying to pull free from their cruel grip. "Do you even care?" 

The king's expression was unreadable, but she saw the slightest flicker of weakness in his eyes. Before she could continue her interrogation, however, he began to stride away again. 

"Your Grace!" He did not heed her. "I have information from King's Landing," she shouted desperately. He finally paused. 

"No, you don't," was his flat response. "I have Littlefinger in King's Landing. If he doesn't know it, no one does."

"So you trust him now?" Melisandre retorted. Her face softened. "That is not the king I know."

Her familiarity incensed him. He hissed something at his men before walking away. To her distress, they began hauling her off in the opposite direction.

"Your Grace," she entreated. He did not stop this time. "Please…do not throw me out again," she begged, no longer caring about propriety or pride. The men only restrained her tighter. It was then she noticed they were not taking her to the borders of Winterfell, but dragging her to a dark tent, far from the festivities of the main castle. Panic spread like wildfire through her veins. "Stannis, please... _Stannis!"_   She fought wildly as his guards dumped her onto the dank ground between stacks of ornate furniture. 

_He will not let them hurt me_ , she reminded herself, but it was difficult to remain calm as they bound her wrists with rope.  _No matter how much he despises me, no, he could not stoop so low…_  But the men did not touch her beyond securing her to a pole in the middle of the cramped tent.

Melisandre glared as they turned to leave. "Is he waiting until tomorrow to ship me across the sea?" One of them turned around, obviously annoyed with her defiance.

"You will shut your mouth and await the pleasure of his Grace."

_Ah. He has not decided what to do with me yet._ Melisandre scowled at her surroundings, squirming against the rough binding. "Is there where you cut the hands and tongues of criminals? This ugly excuse of a tent?" 

The guard laughed dryly. _"This—_ " he kicked a barrel— "is the king's private supply. You are the king's prisoner now."

* * *

"Tommen is dead!" 

Shireen lifted her head, startled from her rest. "What?"

"Tommen, the boy king," her husband panted, the parchment crumpled to ruin in his hand. "He was assassinated."

The princess sat up dazedly, wheels turning frantically in her mind. "By whom?"

Rickon shrugged wildly. "Don't care. This is the end of the Lannisters, bloody bastards. My family will finally have their justice."

"By whom?" she repeated.

"The High Sparrow wishes to execute Cersei and her brother for their crimes." His wife was still waiting expectantly. "Oh...Littlefinger was behind it, no doubt." He began pacing excitedly. "You know what this means, don't you? My sister is sending men to strengthen our control over the Riverlands and the Westerlands. With northern support we will destroy these Tyrells within a fortnight. I am sure of it, because Sansa has taken Tommen's daughter as leverage." He paused to rally off Westeros on his fingers. "She has the Vale and the North, we'll have the Reach soon enough. And then your father— "

"Will want to push into the Crownlands, with the enemy surrounded," Shireen finished.

Her husband stopped to catch his breath. "Aye." Shireen frowned, her hands drifting unconsciously over her white shift. His excitement waned slightly. "Whatever is the matter, my storm queen?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, husband. Only— " He took her hands in encouragement. "It is very possible my father can win his throne before spring," she acknowledged. Rickon only blinked, shaking the disheveled auburn curls away from his eyes. "Do you see...the responsibility this places on us?" she asked delicately. By the blank look on his face, he did not. The princess sighed. "You will soon enough."

"What— ?"

She smiled nervously up at him. "I am with child."

* * *

His voice was all she could hear.

"Sansa bloody Stark."

It seemed to have become more than a name in the time she had been away. It was a curse, an exclamation. An expression of admiration.

"She will be the death of me," Stannis concluded. 

The priestess strained her ears to pick up more of the conversation, but it was difficult through the thick stone walls of Storm's End. Day and night she had listened, praying for Izaak's voice, or by some miracle, a young girl's. Instead she heard the Onion Knight—though she cared very little to. 

"Ned's girl is intelligent, your Grace. She knows this is the time to push her demands, with King's Landing in chaos, and the Wall fortified for the time being…" 

"For the time being," Stannis emphasized. "One year without a wight attack and these chambermaids are back to playing the game of thrones."

_My ever prudent king,_ Melisandre thought. It was a blessing she could hear even this much. After so many weeks of isolation, she could only guess why she was being kept in the rooms adjacent to his.

"Threatens to withdraw Northern support," he was complaining, "Unless—her words— _unless_   _your Grace learns the art of diplomacy."_ She heard Ser Davos chuckle. 

"She's damn bold, you must give her that." 

"She's damn  _insolent,"_ Stannis grit out. Melisandre wished she could see her king's scowl. How she yearned for a glimpse, a touch—any piece of him, after so many years apart.

It was times like these her mind would drift to Izaak. She thought of his solemn face, the strong jaw and the raven hair. She tried very hard to imprint every detail of that brief encounter into her mind, but the memory was already waning.

_And Rhaedeny..._

The thought was too painful. And too enraging. During the long nights she rehearsed the accusations she would fling at her king's face. She lost momentum after several months. Her requests to see him were consistently denied. She was a prisoner, with no right to anything at all.

_Prisoner, yet kept in the finest corridor of Storm's End._  It was perplexing, but after so many years of squalid wandering, Melisandre could only be grateful for a fire and furs to ward off the winter.

The king's voice drifted through once more. "It is a delicate matter…" She pressed herself back to the cold wall of her prison.  _Ah_. Stannis was still cursing Sansa Stark. 

The Onion Knight was still amused. "And what does she criticize in your Grace's claim, exactly?"

A long silence. 

When the king finally spoke, his voice was tired. Defeated. "Do you remember the first thing she proposed at the Wall?"

"I remember her claim over the North, aye," Davos replied. "Oh. Regarding your daughter's betrothal?"

"Regarding…" Stannis let the sentence hang in the air. Then he sighed, and her heart pounded almost out of her chest. "It seems, Davos, I must finally grant the red woman an audience." 

* * *

She never did hear Rhaedeny through that wall, but she heard her sister.

"You should marry another, Rickon. You are young, and handsome and noble…" The princess's voice was filled with despair.  _Why?_ Melisandre did not know, but it was clear that the wild Stark boy had a streak of gentleness in him.

"Gods, I will hear none of this. I am already enamored by my storm queen, and none other is so beautiful."

Shireen was crying. "I am his heir, his only...and unable to carry out my duty."

"Either way, I will be at your side," he insisted. "We only need each other, my love..."

_How romantic,_ Melisandre thought, but her smile was entirely sincere. 

She was not one to talk of love, after all. That was clear when the king finally summoned her one evening.

Melisandre bowed, and he rose, his chair scraping against the floor in premonition. By the looks of it, he had been in the middle of his supper.  _He called me on a reckless whim,_ she realized. As at Winterfell, they simply regarded each other. But this time they were alone, and she could study him more closely.

Stannis had always been lean, and somewhat drawn in appearance. Now—despite his victories at the Wall and elsewhere—he was utterly gaunt, with dark blue shadows looming beneath haunted eyes. 

_This is the shadow of a man,_  she thought.Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"Your fires burn low, my king."

He shook out of his stupor. "I am not your  _king_ ," he spat. "You do not serve me."

Melisandre blinked. "Your Grace," she corrected, willing the tears to stay at bay. Her fiery eyes darted to the walls of his chamber in distraction. "May I ask why I am being held here?"

The king lifted an eyebrow. "Would you like me to spell out your offenses at Winterfell?"

"No, why am I being imprisoned  _here?_  In the royal apartments?" 

Stannis watched her carefully. "My guards do not understand what you are capable of. I will not take any chances this time. Especially when you claim to have sensitive information."

That took her slightly aback. "But— why not simply throw me in the dungeons, with no freedom at all?"

A tense moment passed. "It is better I can monitor you myself." 

Melisandre sensed his weakness.  _Her chance._ "It has been a long time," she began. Her voice was shamefully strained. "Do not fear I will act against you. I am changed, your Grace."

His voice was very cold. "Ah. You have found your Azor Ahai, then?" 

She swallowed, forcing her pride aside. "I was wrong," she whispered, "about so many things." The confession spilled out before she could stop it. It was a truth she had long denied, even to herself. "I try to forgive, yet I cannot help but resent the Lord. For misleading me…abandoning me. I am lost, and so weary of running. This is how I found myself at Winterfell…led to you once more." She lifted her eyes to his, but he seemed emotionless as ever. 

"You betrayed me."

There was no use denying it. "I had no choice."

It was the wrong answer, evidently. Stannis shook his head sharply. "You had every choice. As did I. I chose justice for innocent lives, and you chose to blame me for your failures. Don't you dare claim otherwise."

His words struck a chord in her, especially after she had just admitted such intimate thoughts to him. "And do not forget your hypocrisy,  _your Grace_." 

_Careful,_ she reminded herself. 

She took a deep breath, trying to steady the anger in her voice. "I met Izaak." Stannis narrowed his eyes. "No, I did not escape my prison cell," she added dryly. "I saw him at Shireen's wedding." Her smile was sad. "He is so like you. Imagine my disappointment that he still believed himself an orphan. That his sister was no longer fostered with him." She sneered. "And all those years ago, you feigned such concern for her protection."

He took a dangerous step forward. "Do not presume to say that I have neglected them. Until now, the political threat has kept me from claiming them. We discussed this before winter was even begun," he grit out. "And Thoros—damn rogue—returned our ravens months ago. Rhaedeny will be returning from Myr in a short while."

Melisandre opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out.  _Rhaedeny was in Essos?_ That Thoros was behind the whole thing was irritating and relieving all at once.  _Bastard_. It meant that she had narrowly missed her daughter. Yes, she had sensed Rhaedeny's presence in the free cities, had seen her in passing fires…and now she was meant to be returned to Storm's End.  _So why was her soul still troubled?_

"You will tell them the truth, then?" she demanded. 

The king gripped the edge of his desk. She could tell his own patience was running dry. "It is not your place to question. You relinquished that right six years ago."

It felt like a blow to the chest. Years of pent up anger came unbidden to her tongue. "What was I supposed to do? You hurt me too, Stannis, discarded me as if I were nothing! You never intended to serve my Lord, but you were content to use me, my devotion— "

His forgotten meal promptly smashed to the floor.

"Oh, I used  _you_ , did I? Was I the one who ripped into your life and slipped out when things did not suit me, then came crawling back, for gods know what? No, and with good reason. You offer little I could desire, you fucking— "

"Say it," Melisandre demanded, bringing her face very close to his. He did not, restraining himself— _always restraining himself_ —before the abusive words could slip out. "For God's sake," she muttered, claiming his lips. He was not appreciative of this, but she forced him back until he returned the violent kiss.

"I hate you," he hissed, pushing her against the stone wall of his chamber. Melisandre laughed, allowing him to tear her robes off.

"I hate you too," she declared, raking at the laces of his breeches. He lifted her roughly. "But I— " She gasped as he brought her down on him.  _By the Lord!_ "I wish I felt nothing for you." Her eyes fell shut with the force of their coupling. Each thrust seemed a punishment.

"A happier life it would be," he agreed. Neither of them lasted long. They would not admit it, but it had been six years since either had found comfort in the embrace of another, and the intimacy was too much to bear. Stannis tensed and rested his forehead against the wall. She clung to him with every part of her being and willed the tears not to spill over. 

Her feet touched the floor after a moment. For the first time in her life, she felt ashamed as they pulled their clothing back in place. Painful silence settled in the air, their breathing evening out.

"Did you grant me an audience for this?" 

He shot her a hard glare. "No. It so happens you turned up when there is…a final duty I would ask of you." He flexed his fingers stiffly. "After you uphold your end of this proposition, I shall settle your treason. Not forgive, mind you. But I'll pardon it, and you'll be free to live within my kingdoms, doing as you will."

"Even if I cared about your official pardon, I do not read the flames as I used to," she admitted.

He snorted. "I learned long ago not to trust your  _visions_. This is not an offer to re-enter my court." 

"What makes you think I'll accept, then?"

He sighed. "I will recognize Izaak soon. It is time I do."

Fury simmered in her veins again. "You would use him as leverage? How could you consider such a vile— " 

"You dare accuse me of that, when you nearly  _killed_  our daughter?" He shook his head impatiently. "You misunderstand. He will be acknowledged regardless. I only assumed— " He broke off in a short laugh. "Perhaps wrongly. I assumed you'd want to see him. Here, at Storm's End. Live alongside him, redeem yourself. Be a…friend to him. I will allow this—arrange it, even—if you only agree to this last service."

Melisandre blinked, stunned. "What...must I do?"  _Sacrifice myself for your pleasure? Shall I build the pyre, too?  
_

His smile was sad and bitter. "We will speak of it on the morrow, with my wife and Ser Davos. Now, my men say you have not slept in months, and we've acted foolishly, and we must rest." The priestess sighed in irritation, but she had little say in the matter. As she turned to leave, he caught her arm. "No. The last thing I need is for my court to see you leaving my rooms in the dead of night. There is a back corridor to your chamber." The location still made little sense to her, but then the realization sank in. 

_He is ashamed of me._

She did not argue. For the first time in six years, she was at his side—but he still seemed worlds away. 


	7. PART SEVEN | The Curse of a Girl

[ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/145620257541/the-foreign-princess-by-francesca-resta)

* * *

"What do you see?"

It was a good question. 

Rhaedeny blinked, attempting to focus on the scene. "A woman in red—no, not a woman in red. A red woman."  _She is beautiful_ , she thought. Thoros seemed to be restraining himself from saying something, so she simply continued. "And a man, tall and…serious looking. Black of hair. He is holding a babe."

The next part of the vision was odd. There was the barest hint of a smile at the man's lips as he spoke down into the bundle. For a brief moment Rhaedeny saw the infant more closely.

She had red eyes.

_This is me_. The realization knocked the breath from her lungs.  _And_ … _this is my father._ For several long minutes she could not speak. 

"Thoros," she said quietly. "I know it is further south, but…may we visit the great temple at Volantis?"

The red priest lounged further back into his seat by the window. Flecks of amber light fell upon his languid form. "Where did you get this idea, little storm?" 

She shrugged, continuing to fidget in front of the fire. "I just always wanted to visit." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "I feel the priests there…may understand my first vision."

Thoros seemed surprised. He swung his legs off the ledge, pulling a peach from his pocket. "And say the High Priest himself receives you. What will you tell him?" 

The girl felt her heart quicken. "The same I tell you." Thoros hummed, hacking at his peach with a blade. He held out a piece to her, but she shook her head distractedly. 

"Girl, you never eat. Just like— " He abruptly caught himself. 

"Like?" 

Thoros watched her carefully. Then he sighed, shoving the peach into his mouth. "Fine, fine. We'll find a ship from Volantis. But don't be upset if Benerro has some…unexpected answers." 

* * *

_I quite get the point, Onion Knight. You can stop glaring at me._ She wished the queen would cease her glaring as well. 

"You have a duty here," Selyse said firmly. 

Melisandre sighed. "I will do whatever you propose, but please— " 

"She will not go," Stannis agreed. 

The priestess stared at him in disbelief, fury clouding her vision red. "Rhaedeny is...in danger. I have seen it."

"I have already informed you of Thoros and his ravens," he snapped. "If needed, Ser Davos can always retrieve her. He is familiar with Essos." A smile ghosted his lips. "And the best smuggler I know. But you will not go there."

"You still believe I'd harm her?"

Stannis shifted. "That is not the reasoning. Your duty— " 

"For the love of the Lord, have you not told her?" Selyse snapped. 

"Quiet, woman."

"What duty?" Melisandre interrupted. "You all keep harping about it, with no details as to what." 

The king sighed irritably, but she could tell it was not easy for him to speak. "The problem is grave, my lady. The maester says…Shireen will not survive a future pregnancy." He clenched his jaw. "I have heard this before—that she is lost to illness, ever since she was a babe—so I will not give it credence. I am content to name Shireen my sole heir, but lords more...influential than me are not. They all believe her weak and sickly, fear the Baratheon name lost in succession. My daughter is stronger than all combined, damn them, but with the chaos in the south...Shireen and Rickon have burden enough in the Stormlands. I cannot place the pressure of our lineage on her, not when she has already lost a child, not— " He broke off.  _Not when another will kill her._

"You are certain this is a weakness in your claim?"

Stannis ran a hand over his worn face. "Gods, of course it is. I must remain near the North for the time being. My wife will soon journey to the Crownlands with our strongest forces, but our control is tenuous at best. The bloody Iron Islands still threaten rebellion, and Dorne is wary of another dispute over the crown. And what if Shireen— " He stopped to grip the table. "Suppose we crush this opposition. What if Shireen  _doesn't_  survive? Even if she bears a son before that—and the maester says that impossible—what then? Another boy king, with the name of Stark? Wars have been started for less. I cannot risk that, not if I want to win this throne and keep it. An honorable king leaves his kingdoms with a sense of stability. My brother failed to do so, and look where that left Westeros," he pointed out dryly. 

"And you'd like my counsel as well?"

Stannis looked up at her warily. "Your chance has passed for that, my lady." He shook his head. "There is no way around it. I need a legitimate son. It is the last thing standing in way of the throne." 

Melisandre shifted uncomfortably, looking between the king and the queen. "Well, I cannot help you there, can I?" she retorted.

"You can." He watched her carefully. "I am prepared to recognize Izaak. And upon my death—if Shireen has not borne of a child—I vow to legitimize him." 

She looked from face to face, at a loss for words. "Izaak…?" 

"You can thank Lady Stark," the king said dryly.  _The mockingbird?_ "She has been relentless I recognize him from the beginning."

"What of Rhaedeny?" Melisandre blurted. Silence greeted her. "You'll deny her, because she is a girl?" she demanded.

"No," Stannis said shortly. 

"Then...?" They avoided her gaze. She sneered. "I see. Take Izaak and be done with it, then. Clearly you do not care for my daughter. So grant me leave to find her."

"Do not accuse me of that," he said sharply. "Rhaedeny is with your priest, and likely content to be there. I doubt she'd take an interest in what you have to say."

The priestess felt tears burn her throat. "She does not know of my…transgressions."

"She will, if you reveal yourself as her mother," Stannis retorted. "Your reputation is far from pleasant. It is likewise the concern with Izaak..." He glanced at his wife, who shot him a deliberate look.

Apprehension crept into her lungs. "How do you mean?" 

The king spoke cautiously. "He was a bastard fosterling until now, so with the possibility of inheriting the throne…there is no question that the people will have  reservations. You know Westeros does not look kindly upon you and your magic, my lady." He looked pointedly her, and she began to feel ill. "Surely you understand. I must claim him from another woman."

Melisandre felt as if she had been struck again. "From another woman?" she repeated incredulously. "Have you found a whore, after all?" 

Ser Davos chuckled at that.  _Glad you appreciate the jape, Onion Knight._ Stannis glared at him. "I am not known for whores, my lady. I would not acknowledge the son of a whore." He grimaced. "But a noblewoman…well...Lady Stark is bolder than I thought." 

_The mockingbird. No, it cannot—_  

"She offered to claim him. Said a bastard of Stark and Baratheon blood might be accepted by the people. She even vowed not to marry, so as to avoid  _that_  scandal." He chuckled dryly. "Gods only know what ambition runs through her mind."

Suddenly years of visions came back to her.  _The dalliance with Littlefinger. The plotting and scheming and waiting and—_ Melisandre recalled the first time she had seen Sansa in person. The king's solar at Castle Black…  _How she stared at me, then…how everyone stared at me…_

How could she have been so blind? 

_Of course._ The stronger Stannis's claim, the greater chance Sansa had for avenging her family name. Melisandre had thought it an omen, then. A sign that time was run dry for her king, that she had to push their cause forward to save the kingdoms from darkness. She had believed it a sign on that westbound ship as well. It was supposed to be the strength she needed to live again. The vision that would finally guide her to Azor Ahai.

_She had been so sure, for the second time…_

And all along,  _this_  was the true reason for the mockingbird? Melisandre began to laugh at the dark hilarity of the situation. 

The queen misinterpreted her hysteric state, frowning. "Clearly it is not ideal, to even consider such shame. But we have little choice. The Lord has not— " She broke off with a tight voice. "The Lord does not bless our union with sons. Or other living children, or brothers, for that matter. And it is clear Shireen has inherited the curse of Robert and Delena's sin, having been borne of our marriage bed. She will bear no healthy sons." 

"But no matter," Stannis waved. "We need not consider Lady Stark's _proposal_ any longer…not if you don't wish it. The moment you stepped foot on Winterfell, a simpler solution presented itself." The priestess felt her fury abate slightly, a small spark of hope taking its place. It was quickly dashed out. "To the people, it does not truly matter  _who_  Izaak's mother is...so long as it is not you. So you see, my lady. You only need confirm it." He took note of her livid state. "That is why...Rhaedeny is quite in your image, therefore…" He trailed off. 

The room was silent for several moments. 

"That is what I must do?" Her voice was little above a whisper. "Disown my son?" More silence was all the confirmation she needed.  _My blood is boiling._  "No. The Lord has not led me here for  _this_. I'll not reject him to appease your bannermen. To save your  _pride_."

"It would prevent a great deal of discontent, and it is best for Izaak." The king regarded her coolly. "Isn't this what you always wanted? To rid yourself of my  _bastards_?" Selyse and Ser Davos shifted, tensing the tumultuous feud between the two.

"That was never the issue and you know it," she hissed. "This is precisely what I feared would happen. To be…discarded...and my daughter— " Tears came unbidden to her eyes, to her mortification. 

"Rhaedeny is not here. But I am giving you a say in Izaak's future. Only your words could have effect."

"My words?" Melisandre spat. "No. This land gives no voice to women. Nor do you."

"You don't accept then?"

She laughed. "You Westerosi are so foolish." They all stared back in stunned indignation. "And crueler than I could ever be."

The king gripped his chair with white knuckles. "That is not my intention. I promised you may live here with your children, even when Rhaedeny is returned. You have that option." Her heart caught violently. "But you must not be seen with Izaak, or seen outside the castle at all, for that matter. People already assume you banished, which is the better for this situation."

All the pain of the past years came back to her, and she no longer had the energy to be angry. Her throat was too tight to respond. 

Stannis sighed. "My lady, Ser Davos…leave us." They seemed slightly offended, but there was no defying the king at this moment. Without the judgmental stares in the room, Melisandre felt she could breathe more freely.  

His tone became slightly more gentle. "No matter what you believe...I do not wish to do this. Do you understand? I  _will_  break if this goes to rebellion. It wounds me to admit, but I do not have the men. So many have perished in the North, and still Snow begs me to send more—and how many more years will this winter last? Have I fought for so long to take the throne, only to see it divided again? I will not take the risk, with the promise of spring and peace in sight. I must bend to these fools...for the sake of my people."

Melisandre stared at him for a very long time. "You have changed."

He smiled bitterly. "I have learned some things in this winter, my lady. The first of which is that we do not live in a truly just world."

She did not know how to respond to that. It was as if Stannis Baratheon had died and someone had taken his place. "If...I refuse?"

"If you refuse, there is little guarantee you will ever know your children. And a petty feud may yet again plague Westeros, even while the true enemy lies North." He tilted his head. "But you know that, my lady."  

She was silent for a long while.  _What choice do I have?_ "I have provisions," she finally said. "One, the princess remains first in line to the throne, and any children she might bear, assuming they are of age. I do not care about the rules of your kingdoms. A little boy shall never reign before Shireen." She forced herself to keep the acid from her voice. "Two…my  _treason_  is pardoned, as you promised, I am…sustained at Storm's End, and I am free to associate with my children. Privately, of course." Melisandre paused, gathering the courage to share the last demand. "Finally…you will at least recognize Rhaedeny. As soon as she is returned. Those are my conditions."

Stannis considered her with an unreadable expression. "They are fair. Consider them granted." Melisandre fisted the knots of her robe, feeling utterly lost. 

"Then I accept."

For the second time in her life, she had surrendered her children—and with it, she took the future of Westeros into her hands.

* * *

_Rhaedeny, my own little girl…my scarlet hawk..._

_Where are you?_

The priestess tossed in bed. Her skin was itching, burning with a feverish anxiety. She shut her eyes very tight, willing the suffocating fear from her throat. But it was impossible. A desperate, foolish idea came to her mind, and before she could push it aside, she was darting down the short corridor to the king's bedchamber. The guard raised his eyebrows at her. 

"Please, ser, it is of utmost importance." He grumbled and came back a moment later with a curt nod. 

Melisandre slid cautiously into the room, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Fortunately Stannis was still awake, frowning at some parchments in bed.

"Your Grace," she greeted awkwardly, tugging her robe tighter. "Forgive me…but I…my sleep is not well. If I might stay here for the night…?" 

Stannis knew well her nightmares, as she had known his in the past. Perhaps this is why he sighed and nodded, rising to offer her an extra candle. The priestess exhaled in relief, moving restlessly to pray over the fire. "From this fire is born your light, Lord. Strengthen us and guide us to spread your light into the dawn. For the night is dark and full of terrors." 

He scowled when she looked expectantly to him. "After my experience with your god, you think I'll— "

"Say it," she pleaded. He sighed with unnecessary force. 

"Nighttime is dark, daytime is bright. In case there was any question." 

_Close enough._

He herded her to the chair by the fire, but she resisted. "A moment, Your Grace. Which direction lies the head of your bed?" 

"What? Woman— " 

"I am still unfamiliar with this castle and its powers. This chamber in particular," she said calmly, walking to the window to find their orientation. Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It is same as every other damned chamber, my lady."

Melisandre returned from her observation of the stars. "You should be well protected," she announced. Her head angled to the side. "Why do you still call me 'my lady?'" He only watched her warily, waiting for her to spring into the next superstition. She sighed, pulling off her robe in one smooth motion. It left her skin shining and bare in the moonlight. "Good night, then."

Stannis threw the coarse garment back at her in a panic. "Cover yourself, woman!" 

She blinked at him, noting his burning ears. Her eyes went lower. "Oh— " She cleared her throat. "Do you need help with that?"

He dragged her to the bed instead, arranging her none too gently under the furs. "Sleep,  _now_ , damn you." Melisandre rolled her eyes, fingers slipping beneath his doublet.

"Just fuck me so we can get on with our sleep." 

He grit his teeth. "Then will you be quiet?" The priestess shrugged and threw the furs off to reveal her pale thighs. It had the desired effect, to her immense relief. "Gods, I will never be free of your madness..." He pushed her roughly against the bedding, positioning himself with a grimace. By the third thrust her mind had wandered elsewhere. 

"Do you take honey on your bread?" 

Stannis froze, then recoiled. "Do I  _what?"_

"When you break your fast, do you enjoy honey?" 

He narrowed his blue eyes at her. "I'm in no mood for lewd japes, woman."

_Lewd?_ "No, no. Honey. It is a sweet, sticky paste— "

" _I know what it is."_

Melisandre tilted her head contemplatively against the pillow. "It is said to have a calming taste," she confided, "And you can make a tonic to settle anxiety. I believe we both have need for it, though one should be sufficient to spread the effect." He stared at her in disbelief. "Very well," she sighed, noticing his expression. "I do not like it, but I will take it in the morning, to spare you having to do so." 

The king looked as if he were in pain. "Melisandre, I…" She watched him expectantly. Eventually he shook his head, resuming his movement. 

It was going to be an long night.

* * *

_"There is a girl in a room of dragonglass. A man stands behind her, but she is already escaped. There is a great red light in the chaos...a light— "_

_"A sword?" the High Priest interrupted._

_Rhaedeny_   _blinked in fear. "Yes," she whispered._

_He seemed in disbelief himself. He took the girl's chin in his long fingers, tilting her eyes to the fire. "Is it a glamour?" he asked quietly._

_"M-my eyes, High Priest?"_

_Benerro shook his strange head, his tattoos blurring with the motion. "Everything." Rhaedeny furrowed her brow in confusion, but his gaze hardened. "Dear girl, I am sorry. But you must be examined."_

_Thoros stepped forward. "First Servant— " But the High Priest held up a slender hand._

_"You have run a long time. But the Lord does not forget, Melony, and neither do I."_

The priestess shrieked out of her sleep, involuntarily clawing at the ruby. "Please, no, no,  _no_ — " 

"Gods, what..." The king jerked blindly out of bed. "My lady?" 

"A candle," she begged, wincing through the pain. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

"Take it off, Melisandre, damn you!" She tried to argue, but it was too excruciating to bear any longer. The priestess ripped the choker from her neck, flinging it across the room. It hit the wall with a sizzling thud, then slid to cool on the stone floor. Her hands flew up to the blistering skin of her throat. 

"Rhaedeny," she gasped.

The king's eyes widened in alarm. He barked for a servant without thinking, and Melisandre panicked, coming to her senses. "No, Your Grace! Please!" He seemed to understand, but it was too late; a drowsy steward stumbled in with a candle. The boy seemed slightly taken aback by the sight of the priestess in his bed, but Stannis only glared at him. 

"Water," he demanded. The steward straightened up before scrambling to fetch a goblet of water. 

"The candle," she whispered again, but this time she was begging for him to put it out. She hung her head so her hair might cover her face. It had already changed to a dark auburn, much less striking than her trademark copper strands. Stannis frowned, pulling her to hide in his chest instead. The steward brought the water to the bed, then awkwardly made to leave. 

"He's left, my lady." She pulled back, quite mortified. Tears had tracked down her pale face, real tears of salt, and one of ink high upon her cheekbone. Jagged red lines covered the cheek below. The king wasted no time in interrogating her, but not about her appearance. "You saw Rhaedeny?"

Her eyes slid tentatively up to his, shining red as blood moons. "I see her often, Your Grace, but this time— " Her voice was oddly strained. "I beg of you. She is in true danger."

"How?" he demanded. Clearly he was still suspicious of her visions.  _With good reason._

"I— " The priestess closed her eyes. "You cannot understand."

Stannis glowered at that. "Then help me  _understand_ , damn you." She tensed at the command, so he tried again, voice gentler. "Will you tell me?" Melisandre considered this for a long moment, searching his eyes for any malice, any trap. There was none.

"I will. I must, for her sake. But please...do not look down on me for what I must say."

"There are more important things," he said stiffly. 

She sighed. "Very well."  _A shuddering breath._  "There was a girl, much like Rhaedeny..."

* * *

She had no natural attraction to the fire.

In those days, it was the water she loved most. Her poor, unfortunate mother had her folk theories.  _It is the silver-blue of your eyes, so rare and clear, which calls you to the sea._ To others, it didn't matter. She was the lowest of their race. Lower than the rest of humanity.

Even so, it was the only time she could recall true happiness. She had the freedom to slip into the Bay of Volantis in the dark mornings, to drift toward the east shore, and that was enough. Its cool water was the kindest touch she had known.

_Magic_ , she called it. It could make her collar light as a feather around her neck.

Prayer was an unknown concept then, but sometimes she'd hold her breath in the still water, hoping to see a red sunrise. Her wish did not go unheeded. At some point she noticed the world dawning crimson more often, a bloody sun peeking out of the sea to kiss her cheeks. Sometimes she caught sight of her reflection in the gentle waves, eyes alight with wonderment, glinting a bit  _too_  red from the sun. 

"Melony," her mother would call, a scolding rod at her back as she scrambled out of the water. "Aeksio wants your hands for stitching, not to splash around the docks like a sea bird."

Aeksio wanted her in other ways, but she was spared  _that_  pain a while longer. 

"Melony, Melony…what is this?" Her mother's dark curls tickled her cheek as she leaned over. "Your eyes, girl, what have you done? Always staring into the sun, you silly thing!"

She caught sight of her reflection again. The red of the sun had seeped into her eyes, as it always did, but it did not abate that morning, or that night, or the morning after. On her eleventh name day Aeksiocaught word of the development; the other slaves had taken to hissing and spitting at her affliction. 

He was not a frightening man. Rather unremarkable, really. A wealthy merchant of garments, his countenance dull and his behavior drunken more often than not. She didn't even know his name. He'd always been  _Aeksio_ , Master, a familiar face, and that was a strange comfort in her house. When he called her into his rooms one evening, she was not afraid.

She should have been. 

"You have done something foolish, girl, to burn your eyes so." 

"No, Aeksio, I only— "  _She'd only what?_   Been sneaking out of his household—and her work—to enjoy the bay each morning? It was too late to lie. He glimpsed the sea salt upon her cheeks.

"The gods put the mark on your eyes, then, for your disobedience. It is a red curse," he insisted. 

She tried to argue, to defy him, and that was her biggest mistake. "I am not curs— " It was very dark when it happened. The shadows seemed looming as she was pinned to the floor, such that she believed he  _was_  driving the demons out of her. After a while, Melony gave up resisting and stared into the fire, because she didn't know where else to look. Blood and pain and crippling shame left her on the floor, but the flames dried her silent tears. 

The pain did not end after that. She did not have a father, as far as she knew, and her mother could not protect her, could not rebel, else they be sold off to far worse. "There was a time when men knew how to be men," the woman cried angrily, scrubbing her daughter's skin in the rusted basin. The kitchen slaves clucked in agreement. "Melony, you learn early. Women must lead men to become who they should be."

But it was not an easy lesson for a child to grasp _._  Soon, Aeksio was displeased again. Something was wrong with her, and the wiser slaves had caught on, locking her in the dark cellar to conceal the sight. On top of her illness, the curse had grown stronger without the cooling balm of the sea. Her eyes shone red and feverish by the time Vogarro Qhaedar clambered into the cellar to inspect her. 

"Melony, magic Melony," he chuckled. "Does she work hard?" 

"It doesn't matter. No respectable house will take her," Aeksio lamented. He spat on the floor. "Defiled  _and_  cursed." 

Vogarro was a crafty trader, however—the most notorious in the city, known by all manner of tradesmen—and unconcerned with the standards of honor. "I will take care of it, my friend." It was only out of desperation that Aeksioagreed. Masters could do whatever they wished with their slaves, of course, but this particular girl reflected badly on a respectable man, staining his reputation as careless. 

"I will hide her," her mother begged, "Aeksio, I will hide the shame, no one will know— " But Vogarro delivered a staggering blow to the child's stomach, and a teardrop was inked upon her cheekbone before she had a chance to cry in earnest. "I have failed you...my child, my daughter…"

She had not known what that meant, at the time, but she was on the selling block before she could ask. 

"Melony," a voice cried.

"Lot Seven." Vogarro read off her specifications. He had tried to train her, to beat her, to scourge her into the trade of pleasure, but to no avail. No man desired a weeping child with a bleeding belly and the curse of scarlet eyes. None but one.  

"The temple will take this child."

The bidding space fell quiet. Melony was puzzled, even more so when the soft-spoken priest gave a heavy purse for her. Then she was brought to the Temple of R'hllor, and she understood why. 

It seemed carved from the cliffs behind it. A hundred hues of red met and melded in its cavernous walls, dissolving one into the other like the sea at sunrise. Her gaze drank it in, burning brighter at the sight. She was startled by the priest's voice. "What are you called?" 

"Lot Seven," she recited. He shook his head, and she felt dread in her belly, but he was patient. "Oh—Melony."

"Melony. You are blessed already, marked and loved by the Lord." The man's own face was marked with dancing flames, streaming down as if they poured from his eyes. "He desires nothing more upon your skin. He shall brand His fire upon your heart." With that he declared her a Slave of R'hllor, and then he sent her to live with the other prostitutes of the temple. 

As she stumbled behind the silk screens of their quarters, a woman with gleaming ebony skin grabbed her chin. "Why do you have this?" she demanded. Melony saw the matching tattoo upon the woman's cheek, but she did not have an answer for her. The strange woman shook her head. "You are too young." Melony was put to work fetching water and stitching the pale yellow robes of the prostitutes.

Those two years seemed a blur of mindless labor—and yet, they were as peaceful as her days in the bay. The temple was an enormity of lofty pillars, gold steps jutting from hidden alcoves, bridges arching as high as the heavens above her head, one flowing into the other, such that she did not know where the cliff rock ended and the temple began. To a young slave, it was the finest palace in the world. She would drift down the corridors clutching silks and water jugs and stare at the shimmering ceiling and a thousand fire pits in awe—until she ran into some other slave in her distraction. Sometimes it was a strange look or a slap on the wrist she received. Other times, a knowing smile. 

She missed her mother, but the temple was a refuge from the judging eyes of the world. Even when she began her designated service in the fullest sense, it was not as dreadful as she'd expected. She was quick to learn, and the priests were not cruel, and it was never dark in their rooms. Best of all, the kindest ones would read to her in High Valyrian as they lay upon beds dappled with golden sunlight, or they would share what they saw in the flames, translating each motion, each swirl of smoke in the hearth. No one cursed her unnatural eyes or her absentmindedness. And everyone was called  _slave_  there—even the High Priest. 

The first time she was called to Benerro's chamber, she nearly dropped the water she'd been carrying. She'd seen him around the temple, of course, preaching with his high voice, sonorous and clear—but she'd never been this close. He was tall and thin, with a shaven head and skin as white as milk. Flames covered his entire skull to form a bright red mask. "Melony, you are?" 

She fell to her knees, shocked that he knew her name. "Y—yes, Light of Wisdom."

The flames crackled about his eyes and coiled down and around his lipless mouth. "Child, fear me not. I am the First Servant of the Lord of Light, no more worthy of His love than you." She didn't know how to respond, so she rose to set the water on the massive stone table. He studied her with that unnerving gaze, and after a while, she brought trembling hands to the tie of her robe. "No," he said smoothly. 

Melony frowned at the floor. "Have I displeased, First Servant?" 

He motioned his servants out with a fluid hand. "A dear girl, you are. We should talk." She was shocked when he gestured her toward a chair. It was impossible not to squirm under his gaze when they were both seated. "They tell me you've come two years ago. You've discovered the Lord of Light, Melony?" She shifted, wracking her brain for every word that had been driven into her mind by the priests. Benerro laughed after she relayed all her education to him.

"A clever girl. But these words mean nothing. True discovery is meeting the Lord in your heart." He tilted his head, leaning closer to her. "You pray, do you?"

"Yes," she lied. 

His laughed again, and the tattoos made dizzying shapes. "But you see things, Melony?" She felt a flutter of panic in her chest. "Dear girl, do not fear. Tell me what you see in the fire." 

"I— " She swallowed, terrified of answering wrongly. It seemed some kind of test. "It is mostly flame, First Servant." He watched her expectantly. "But sometimes there is…a girl, sometimes a man with her. And a blade…a red blade, in a great chaos. I do not understand, First Servant," she confessed. Benerro leaned back in his chair to study her again. A long minute crawled by.

"Have you been taught in the art of songs, or in the ancient books? The prophecies?" he asked gently. Melony shook her head in confusion.

"I—I do not know books. I was a house slave." 

"A house slave? Then how do you come to have that teardrop?"

Dark hair fell over her burning face. "I was— " She inhaled sharply, trying to recite the words. "I am impure. I shamed my Aeksio. That is why they took me from my mother." Her throat felt tight. "First Servant," she added quietly.

The priest folded his hands calmly, but his eyebrows were lifted in surprise. "You are not taught, then…so this image you see…yes. Yes, this is a great gift. The reason for the fire in your eyes. You may indeed be chosen." He stood abruptly, and she scrambled to her feet as well. "But you are not ready." He led her to the door of the chamber, but Melony's mind was reeling.  

"Chosen?" She clutched her coarse robe with anxious hands. "Please, First Servant, I do not— ?" 

Benerro seemed to float along the smooth floor. "Chosen, as the other priests have been chosen." 

"Priests? You mean I— " Melony stopped and lowered her eyes, realizing she'd once again overstepped with her boldness.

"Someday, perhaps," he said airily. "First you must learn obedience, discipline…patience."

After a shocked moment she bowed, sensing the dismissal. "T—thank you, First Servant." 

"But dear Melony." She whirled around, panicked. He only smiled. "You must never be ashamed, yes? You are perfect to the Lord, and that is all that matters." 

The revelation changed everything, but for a long while, it did more harm than good. She abandoned all focus on service to study the flames, eager to drink in every image. She met R'hllor in her heart for the first time, and then she felt every bit more  _chosen_  than the other pleasure slaves. They did not seem to appreciate her newfound sense of purpose. 

A visiting emissary did not either. She wrongly judged that he would be easy to please, so she served him with her gaze on the fire. The overseer of her order found her bleeding and bruised upon the floor. There was little sympathy in her gaze. "Always so distracted, this one. Too haughty to learn her purpose." Guards of the temple dragged her into the common room, and there she was whipped as an example to the other prostitutes. They learned a lesson from her ugly scars that day, but she was made all the more rebellious. 

Melony began to sneak into the training rooms of the priests, fashioning herself a red robe so she might cover her face. She found the books of the temple and begged any literate person to read the prophecies to her, willing to endure a beating from the stricter priests who discovered her. It was in this way that she learned, the months blending together and her abilities increasing with each passing day. But as with everything else in her life, that happiness was short-lived. Benerro himself caught her practicing sorcery over the flames, and the priests following him called for drastic punishment.

"I am disappointed," he admitted, frowning. "You do not understand the power you play with, dear girl." The flames on his face seemed to bleed into each other, a thousand bloody rivers. "Many months you come to me, asking to take action on these visions. But you do not have the maturity to interpret the Lord's fires. It is a language of such complexity, it will lead you astray, down the path of shadows and blood and evil, just as the Great Other desires. And through it all, he will make you believe you do R'hllor's bidding." Melony shivered, but a guard ripped the red robe from her body to expose her further. The High Priest sighed. "Today you learn. You do not belong to yourself." He gave her a final frown before gliding away. 

Red ink was the instrument of her humility. At first she did not mind the sentence. She wanted to be part of the temple, after all—a full Slave of R'hllor, not just some pleasure girl. But the guard was not careful. The needle ripped mercilessly from the bottom of her existing tattoo down to her jaw, then back up, and down and up and down and up until her cheek was more a bloody canvas than a flame. For good measure—another guard pointed out that the image was less than clear—she was marked upon her thigh. That way if an outsider thought to take her, they'd know she was owned by the temple.

She had been judged as pretty before, but her scarred countenance was met with aloof distaste now. The priests favored her no longer, the prostitutes resented her, and worst of all, she had offended the High Priest with her behavior. At some point those wonderful corridors had become hostile and threatening, and yet, the flames still beckoned.

_I have chosen you above all others._

It became harder to resist the call of the fire, but with no way to act upon the dark visions, she felt her chances with the Lord slipping.

_Do not fail me._

It was black and silent when she approached the High Priest's own chambers, skirting around the drowsy guards in her dark veil. Her heart pounded as she gathered every book she could carry, every scroll, each vial and strange powder, wrapping them all in an old robe and clutching them to her chest as she stole back to the lower quarters. Whispers followed her, but she did not turn around, did not stop until her feet were bleeding upon the jagged rocks of the port slums. 

She held her robe tighter across her face, and after a few sorcery tricks she was granted a position on a trading ship. "You can mend the sails," the captain chuckled, finishing off an amber bottle. Only then did she release her breath and the treasure in her hands, risking a glance at the looming spires of the great temple. But Volantis was still sleeping as the ship slipped into the hazy water. Melony said a prayer for her mother, ignoring the bitter tears that fell. Then she turned to the horizon, and she never, ever looked back.

Those days and nights were a blur of overwhelming open sea. For the first time in years there was a bittersweet pull toward the waves, an urge to jump in and wait for a red sunrise. It wasn't until she saw the water turn darker, the cliffs looming black and foggy, that she recalled the more frightening legends of her childhood.  

"Please," she approached a foreign deckhand. "Are we in the Jade Sea? Where does this ship trade?" 

He paused in his rigging to look at her oddly, dark eyes sweeping over her robes. "The Shadowlands, girl. You had best convince him to let you off at Qarth." Melony furrowed her brow.

"Why?" 

The man turned back to his ropes with a laugh. "You'll be scared and lonely. There are no children in Asshai." 

* * *

The fire crackled gently in the king's chamber.

"There were none," she confirmed, falling silent. Stannis frowned.

"And then?" 

"Melony was indeed scared and lonely, but she met a woman in a red mask, and she learned different arts..." The priestess paused, her startling eyes flickering to his. "I cannot tell you of Asshai. There is too much I don't understand."

His frown deepened. "From there?"

She searched his gaze, feeling very tired. "From there, the Lord led her to the man in the vision," she said softly. "And now, there is only Melisandre. A woman who has erred too much to be redeemed." 

The king traced her scarred cheek with his own eyes. He seemed grieved. "You believe Rhaedeny is in that temple?"

"I know she is. They are only doing their duty, these true priests of R'hllor. But Rhaedeny will be wrongly punished for my servitude, my crimes..." Melisandre grasped his arm, feeling a desperation wash over her. "Please, Your Grace. I have wronged you. I have betrayed you. And you have every right to mistrust my visions, my intentions. But grant me leave to make things right with the temple, to bring her safely to you."

He studied her for a long moment. "How could I ever trust you again? Especially with her?" 

Melisandre's heart pounded urgently. "This— " She brought his hand to the reddened skin at her throat. "It is all the sign I need from the Lord, and with it, I will finally admit…Benerro was right. I beg you to be satisfied with that as well, to trust me again. For the love you bear our child." It was the boldest thing she'd ever asked of him. To her dismay, he pulled away and called for the steward again.

"Your Grace?" he slurred, rubbing the sleep from his eyes for the second time that night. 

"Wake up, boy, and call upon Ser Davos. He is to leave at first light for Volantis." The poor lad was slightly alarmed, but he scrambled to obey. Stannis plucked her ruby off the floor, then strode back to her. "You are going nowhere. But rid of this," he commanded. "I would myself, but the dark magic might impede me." 

Melisandre stared at him in disbelief. "I will not rid of it," she said sharply. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"After all you've just told me, you still cling to such things?" He flung it into the hearth where it began to melt, but they both knew it would require more than fire to destroy.

"It is only..." Melisandre gestured sharply to her face, refusing to meet his eyes. "People will see."

Stannis waved impatiently. "Let this be the test of your sincerity. If you truly fear for your daughter, you will put aside this petty vanity." 

"Vanity?" Her eyes burned with fury. "You think it  _vanity?"_

"I think 'the Red Woman' another form of bondage, just as much as 'Lot Seven.' You traded one collar for another."

She stiffened against the cutting words, tightening the robe around her body. Even more cutting was the realization.

_He is right._

"And what is left of me?" 

For some strange reason, he cared enough to hold her when tears slipped from her eyes. "After we've done our duty, what is left of any of us?" His words were nearly lost in her hair. "In any case, your priest was right." She glanced up at him in surprise. "We do not belong to ourselves," he said hoarsely.


	8. PART EIGHT | The God of Many Faces

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* * *

 It was as vulnerable as when she'd been with child, only she wasn't with child, and there was no end in sight to this weakness. 

She retreated into solitude and introversion most of her hours. Not that she had a choice; Stannis still restricted her to a few corridors of Storm's End. When she was forced to converse with others in the castle, she spoke with little authority, for she had none. Her confidence had been destroyed with the red gold choker, which effectively extinguished the Lord's power in her body, making it difficult to meet the eyes of lords and servants alike. It was painfully apparent now that she was no true lady.

The servants would check on her rooms, of course, serving her as carelessly as they could. But she asked little of them. 

"Only…if there is more honey in the cellars," she requested one day. It would ease the tension, she was sure of it, and besides—the taste was growing on her.

Yes. Melisandre counted her blessings. 

Despite the inevitable rumors, people seemed unable to accept that this could be the same red woman in service to Stannis Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings. Some whispered  _red whore_  for a time, but she was so transformed that others said it could not be.  _The priestess was not scarred. The priestess was beautiful, and tall, and red._

This woman was decidedly less striking. Westeros came to assume the king had found another woman to accompany him, which was a small relief. More than anything, Melisandre was relieved to learn that Izaak had not been exposed to such rumors at all. 

"What do you know of your parentage before you were orphaned?" she asked gently. 

Izaak thought about this for a moment, fidgeting in the king's study. "Well, Jeyne always— " 

"Who?" Stannis interrupted.

The lad blinked. "Lady Jeyne, one of the queen's ladies."  

"The one with the pockmarks?"

"W-well...yes. She always said I was a bastard from House Herston, so lowly that no one remembers. It was only out of the queen's kindness that I was fostered here." Izaak shifted uncomfortably. "That's what Jeyne says." 

"Bah!" Stannis flicked an invisible piece of dust from his jerkin. "Another pox upon Jeyne's face." 

Izaak's eyes widened slightly, and the priestess felt a smile tug at her lips. "Perhaps it is well he was raised thus," she muttered. "He is far too sweet a boy for you." 

Stannis scowled, but it was only half an effort. "Child— " He shook his head after a strained pause. "Izaak. What I tell you now, I say because you deserve to know. And I ask you to understand...it was not by choice that I've been dishonest." Izaak glanced nervously between the king and the table. "You are illegitimate, but not of another House. You are a Baratheon by blood." The impossible words settled into the air, and the boy seemed ever more terrified. Stannis sighed. "Nor are you an orphan. Your father still lives...though it is unclear whether that is a blessing or a curse for you." She saw him gripping his knees beneath the table. "I recall your birth as if it were yesterday, Izaak. There is no question that you are mine own son. And if you would forgive me, I would be proud to acknowledge you as such," he finished gently. 

Izaak sat for a long while, a solemn crease between his eyebrows. Eventually he was able to whisper a reply. "Y-yes, Your Grace."

The king's shoulders dropped. It was as if he had just relieved himself of a load of firewood. "Your sister, Shireen…she calls me father." The boy opened his mouth to repeat the word, but it became lost in his throat.

"And...you are my mother?" he ventured, eyes darting to the priestess. Her own throat was caught with tears.  _This is the truly impossible part._

"I am no one," she whispered. "You may hear stories of a red woman...of me, even. I beg you not to heed them, for they are just that…stories meant to explain your sister's look." He was watching her strangely. "But I— I was your governess, of sorts, when you were just a babe. If it is agreeable to you, I should still like to get to know you, Izaak. Perhaps you might keep me company here at Storm's End?" 

"If you wish," he said politely. The king nodded shortly, then stood to indicate they should leave, clearly exhausted from the experience. "But..." Izaak tilted his head, and they paused. "Your eyes are the same colour as Rhaedeny's, and I am quite insistent that you are my mother." 

She had nothing to refute the claim, and neither did Stannis.

The king, for his part, seemed neither displeased or entirely smug with her thorough fall from power. His eyes only swept over her body and her face with an increased solemnity. No part of her had gone unchanged. Before, she had been of impressive height. Now she barely brushed his shoulders. She was slighter of figure, breasts less full and hips as narrow as her waist. In many ways she was no longer his shadow, but a waif lost within it. Indeed, he took care not to crush her beneath his own looming form, for their bodies did not match up as easily as before. One night he pulled her atop him, fully exposed in his lap, and she was frozen in mortification.

"Blow out the candles," she blurted. It was possibly the most uncharacteristic request she had ever made. He held her tightly in place when she squirmed to maneuver back under him.

"I wish to see you," he said simply. 

_No, you do not,_ she wanted to snap. But slowly he coaxed her hips to rock against his, even when she felt like burying herself beneath the furs of his bed. When stubborn tears crept onto her cheeks, he said nothing, only allowed her to cry. It was ironic it should feel more intimate this way, but it did. They were forced to discover each other all over again.

In the daytime he was distant and formal, of course. But sometimes at night, when he thought she was sleeping, his voice echoed sentiments from the past.

"Would you like to travel far away from here, my shadow?" he would murmur. "We can take Izaak and find Rhaedeny. No one shall ever have to know what became of the king and the priestess." He buried his lips in her darkened hair. "Never again will you have to lie about your comings and goings. Never again will you hide yourself." The realization hit her, then. He did not keep her shut away out of shame, or lack of trust.

He simply wanted her near him. 

And so they shared their nights. He would watch the rise and fall of her back as she curled closer to his body, her lips parting softly as she sighed. Perhaps he knew she was really awake. Perhaps he wanted her to hear his words. But he never, ever glimpsed her silent tears.

As with all things, however, he grew impatient with the facade. 

"This was the last brand?" he questioned one night, tracing the red flame. It took up the larger part of her thigh.

"Yes." Her breath hitched as Stannis leaned down to kiss the scar. She watched in awe as he continued to study her body. "You need not…do that, Your Grace." 

He glanced up in irritation. "Would you rather I abuse you, as I did many years ago?"

Melisandre lay very still. "You did not abuse me. I deserve to be punished, even now, for my betrayal." He caught her chin roughly in his hand.

"Don't ever say that." Her eyes darted to the fire, so he held her tighter. "Listen," he commanded. "I cannot forgive what you did. But I made a vow at the Wall, and I broke it once already. I will never again, no matter the circumstances." 

"A vow?"

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "To treat the mother of my children like a queen." 

Her own demands of equality came back to haunt her. They seemed so petty now.  _What I wouldn't give to go back to those days..._

"May I inquire plainly?" 

"Inquire as you will."

Melisandre paused. "I have done as you commanded, in regard to Izaak. And I have yielded my power, my ambition. You said you cannot forgive me…but will you consider it?"

He looked at her for a long while. "You are quite changed, my lady." 

"As are you." The fire nearly covered her soft words. "I have tried to live without you. I have searched and wandered and prayed, only to find myself by your side once more. No matter how much we deny it, there is something which links us." After a moment, her scarlet eyes softened. "Was it true, what you told Izaak? Do you truly remember their birth...my king?"

He tried to suppress his smile, but the memory was too cherished. "I do," he admitted. 

Melisandre felt her throat tighten. "I want to see you so contented again. This arrangement is not pleasant. But it is my deepest prayer to regain your trust." 

"My lady," he sighed, "I cannot pardon you based on the pleasure you bring. You are worth far more than that." 

Her eyebrows knit together. "Then how can I prove my remorse to you? If I cannot serve as councillor, and you no longer desire me intimately— "

Stannis chuckled. "You think I don't desire you?" She was slightly taken aback. 

"Of course not. I understand. You should have someone beautiful."

For a long moment he looked at her strangely. Then he shook his head. "You ask how to earn my forgiveness. I will tell you. You had my full trust before, a thing I very seldom give. And you threw it away." He fixed her with a hard look. "I say it is up to you. Show me you are willing to throw away something else—the thing which isolates you from the world." 

"What do you speak of?"

"Your life's mission. Your Azor Ahai." The breath was knocked from her lungs.

"Are you asking me to choose between you and my Lord?" 

"I am asking you to give up the burden which you've taken upon yourself, this obsession which plagues every waking moment of your day. Only renounce that, and you are forgiven. Free to live however you choose. I will appoint you as priestess somewhere, if you like." He ran his fingers over her cheek. "Or you could stay. Simply as...my lady. But you would have to content yourself with nothing more ambitious."

_No. This is wrong._ Still, the temptation was so lovely. "Your lady..." she murmured.

"Long ago I promised not to hide you away. It wounds my pride, but if you wish to take the title, it is yours. I will bring you into my house the rest of your days. You would be provided for, our children too, owing me nothing but your fidelity. Your devotion. Not as a priestess to her god...just as a woman and a man. The devotion of a wife to her lord." Stannis pulled away slightly, seeing her conflicted gaze. "I do not make this offer lightly, and I expect you to consider it with all seriousness."

_No,_  she thought firmly.  _I cannot consider it at all._

"But Melisandre?" She glanced up, brow furrowed. 

A smile tugged at his lips. "How do you doubt your beauty is anything but increased?"

* * *

"What do you know of the gods?" 

Izaak seemed slightly uncomfortable. "Thoros tried to teach me about R'hllor, but I never truly understood. I was more interested in the great histories and battles…" 

The priestess took a deep breath, trying to steady a thousand harsh reflexes. "That is well, Izaak. You may make your father a fine lord someday."

"Rhaedeny always felt close to the red god," he continued, a hint of sadness colouring his voice. "She preferred to stay with our priest when Ser Davos and I journeyed to Skagos to find Lord Rickon." The fire crackled in the corner of the dim study, a solemn reminder of his missing companion. "She's rather annoying, but she is also intelligent. She sees pictures in the fire, and she tells me…well, she used to..." He trailed off.

Melisandre folded her hands. "Ser Davos is bringing her back to you," she said quietly. "You cannot know how much I miss her, too. How I have missed both of you, all these years...and I fear I have missed too much."

The boy looked up at her in surprise. "You are still my mother." She abruptly shook her head. 

"I am not a mother, Izaak. I cannot be."

"You have always been kind to me." 

"You do not understand," she snapped, then forced herself to gentle her voice again. "I have— sinned too much to earn your love, or your sister's forgiveness. This is why we cannot be seen together. Not because I wish it that way, but for your own sake. It is best you both have lives without me."  

Tentatively, his small hand came to find hers in her lap. "Rhaedeny used to say…no matter what we do, no matter how far we walk from God…we can always find Him in the dawn."

There was no way to hide the shock upon her face. "Do you truly believe that? That this darkness will ever fade?" 

"Well…" Izaak considered this with all logic, and then he shrugged. "The sun rises even in winter, mother." 

* * *

_Was it Rhaedeny?_  

The flames seemed to show little, as always, but that did not stop her from squinting harder.  _Yes_. It was Rhaedeny. This was a vision she'd long neglected. She had been too weary to see it clearly, but now it finally broke through.

Rhaedeny was with another girl.  _Who?_  A dark girl. Nothing more was apparent. The vision flickered as a flame leaped into the air. There was another girl still.  _The mockingbird_. A small smile pulled at her lips.  _Will I never be free of Sansa Stark?_

_And…Littlefinger?_   He stood behind her in the white yard of Winterfell.  _Ah. So Lord Baelish will soon take action._ Sansa would too, it would seem. She was defending Littlefinger, somehow. Harboring him. 

Melisandre frowned. "It cannot be," she murmured to the silent fire. 

It seemed so unlike the mockingbird who had outwitted her own mentor in the Vale.  _Had she grown to love him too greatly?_  And how could it be, when Littlefinger was still in King's Landing, and Sansa Stark would soon be traveling to Storm's End to negotiate with Stannis? It seemed this vision would be realized no time soon.  _So when…?_   The smoke danced and shifted, and she saw Winterfell more clearly. The snows were thawing—not much, but enough to see the slickness of the ice on the stronghold's walls. 

_Spring?_

It was then she saw herself walking along the battlements.  _And she was..._

Melisandre abruptly rose from her seat by the fire. "It cannot be," she said again. Then she strode from her bedchamber, ignoring the calls of the guard. 

The corridors of Storm's End were only a blur. Grey and black. A glint of a candle, a torch, a narrow window here and there. The splintered sunlight was weak,but so very warmagainst her bare feet.

_I will be free,_ she thought wildly, and her soles echoed a steady beat against the stones.  _No matter what it takes, my soul will be free as the mockingbird, for my heart rejoices in the Lord of love and mercy—_

"Your Grace," she said firmly, pushing into his dining hall with no warning. 

When he glanced up from the table, Melisandre was reminded of a terrifying day so many years ago. But this morning, she felt only a light sort of nerves. It was then she noticed the queen present as well, considering her over the rim of her goblet. Today was one of her last days in the Stormlands, Melisandre knew. Evidently she desired to share it with her husband. 

"Your Graces," she corrected, heart still pounding. "Forgive me, I should not have interrupted."

Selyse was first to acknowledge her with a cool expression. "Priestess, you seem in an anxious state." 

"I— " She glanced at the king. "I have received knowledge of crucial matters," she finished vaguely. "But excuse me. I shall consult with you when you are  unoccupied." Her feet carried her down the corridor before she could even hear their reply. Footsteps echoed behind her. 

"My lady." It was the king, to her shock. She turned around calmly. 

"Forgive my disruption, Your Grace."

He shook his head, dragging her into his bedchamber by her upper arm. "Tell me the matter."

"Yes, you must know," she rambled, "The Lord has clarified my mind to some things."

"Some things which pertain to me," he guessed dryly.

"As it were. I have give Your Grace's words a great deal of thought— "

"What is your decision?" he asked impatiently. Melisandre looked up at him for a long moment. 

"I am renouncing my previous work." 

Stannis seemed taken aback. "Truly?" 

"Truly." She took a calm breath. "But not for you." 

His blue eyes turned darker. "For another, then?" 

" _Don't."_   He froze at the ferocity of her command. "You will not throw your bitterness at me," she told him, softer. "Do not think for one second I am blind to this game, Stannis. You, dangling your acceptance like some prize to for me to earn, to keep only if I remember my  _place_."

His eyes widened in shock. "No. No, I would not do that, my lady. That is never what I intended." 

"Then you will  _trust_  me when I say...I must take another mission." The priestess closed her eyes, feeling as if she were standing on the edge of a great precipice. "Without the glamour, the pain...the world is made clear. How simple it was to be led astray by the Great Other, for so long..." The words were as bitter as acid in her mouth. "But what you ask of me now...it is impossible. I am incapable of it, my king. I have chased the truth all my life. If I stop now…what use those years of pain? What use my existence, if I refuse to defend all that is good? There is too great a responsibility in my hands, and too dark a threat out in the world." She turned her gaze to his dwindling fire. "This darkness is a terror unlike all others. But I have also seen a great hope. I must find it. It is the way of light and goodness, a path I have strayed so far from."

"You still seek Azor Ahai, then?"

She sighed. "It is not I who must seek Azor Ahai." The cryptic words did nothing to assuage him. She gripped her plain skirts. "Certainly I understand your apprehension. But if only you would forgive me, and all the others I have misled, we priests can do such good in your kingdoms."

He studied her with a solemn gaze. "You must only forgive yourself," he said shortly. 

The breath was knocked from her lungs.  _Forgive myself?_ She shook her head. "I forgave myself when I stopped cursing the Lord. Though I am still cross with Him for testing me thus."

"Clearly," the king said dryly. "My lady…even if I hadn't already forgiven you, it is of little consequence. This is your decision. You know your freedom is yours. I have never had any true hold over you." He watched her carefully, and she glimpsed a vulnerability in his gaze. "I was never what you were seeking, Melisandre. I never will be." 

She suddenly felt nervous again. "No," she said quietly. Stannis said nothing for a long moment, and crushing doubt filled her chest. "If you knew all that I knew, my king, you would understand…" 

"Surely I would," he agreed, but his voice seemed distant.

_Lord of Light, in your love and mercy, give me the strength to do what I must..._

"Yet I know more than you think, my lady." Her head whipped up in surprise. Stannis's eyes had narrowed in accusation. "Is there something else you'd like to tell me?"

* * *

It was not quite a prison, nor was it true freedom. 

Rhaedeny Storm paced the length of the small chamber, wringing her hands. She had the independence and composure of a girl twice her age, yet there was nothing to be done about her current predicament but wait. And pray. 

_R'hllor, why am I here?_

The fire offered no comfort in the balmy air of Volantis. It was a sensation she had never known as a winter child in Westeros. During the first months of her journey in Essos, the sun's warmth was a soothing luxury. Now it was stifling. Her tunic clung to her damp skin, the once-white linen imbedded with a fine layer of grime, despite the slaves' best attempts to wash it. 

_You must have a plan, Lord. You always have a plan._

Her priest was not so patient. After several hours of maddening silence, he finally threw the heel of his boot against the door. A man with a bare head and orange robes immediately cracked it open. 

Thoros pushed him against the wall by the throat. "I demand an audience with the High Priest. He has allowed his men to harm this child!" He thrust his free hand at Rhaedeny and the pale burn upon her cheek. She turned her head toward the fire, feeling ashamed somehow. It was true. They had questioned her to the point of exhaustion, finally resorting to sorcery to search for the brand upon her cheek. But they could not find what did not exist.

The strange man lifted an eyebrow. "The First Servant will receive you now," he said simply. "As slaves of the temple, you must attempt no violence. Come." 

"I am no slave!" Thoros shouted, though he hastily pulled his charge along. "Ask the priests in Myr what they know of me. I forsook my family name when I came to the Lord, but I am the free son of a noble family. They know the name Thoros. It is I!" 

The man said nothing, only strode calmly down the sun-laden corridor. Several other men fell in pace beside them, though she did not understand where they had come from. They wore ornate armor over their robes, wielding spears shaped like writhing flames. The captives were finally ushered into the High Priest's hall, where three more soldiers were huddled about a fire.

"Who are they?" Rhaedeny finally whispered.

"The Fiery Hand," Thoros hissed, but before he could elaborate, the High Priest himself manifested across the room.

"They are the Lord of Light's sacred soldiers, dear girl." He folded his thin hands and drifted across marble floors speckled with golden ember. "Defenders of our great temple. One thousand warriors to protect us all. And slaves of R'hllor, same as you and I." Benerro smiled at the soldiers, waving a hand to dismiss them. As they bowed and retreated from the chamber, he strode smoothly to the open window. "We say, _'_ _A new flame is kindled for every flame that gutters out.'_ Though we never forget those who leave us." He turned back to her, eyebrows lifted as always. "But you know that, Melony."

Rhaedeny clenched her jaw. "Please. For the thousandth time, I am not Melony." Benerro did not chastise her. He said nothing at all. "High Priest, surely you would have found a glamour on me by now. For who, if not you, could wield such magic by the Lord?" 

"Dear girl," he sighed. His long legs seemed not to move beneath his scarlet robe, and yet he was somehow standing before her. "There is only one other I have seen with such natural power. A girl, much like you, with red eyes and your vision of Azor Ahai..."

"But I am not she! I've had other visions," she blurted. Thoros shot her a look, but he dared not challenge either figure in the room. "I may not be able to answer all your questions, High Priest, but I know I am not from the free cities. In fact…I was born in the North of Westeros. I have seen my father in the flames, and my mother. And…she is how I have come to have red features." She frowned at the fire. "Thoros won't tell me, but I believe she was a priestess of some sort." 

For the first time in weeks, Benerro seemed caught off guard. "A  _red_  priestess?"

Rhaedeny shook her head, ignoring the alarm on her guardian's face. "I do not know. I mean—she wore all red, and a ruby about her neck— "

The High Priest's eyes widened further, and Thoros cursed. Just then, however, they were interrupted by a great clamour behind the chamber doors. Rhaedeny heard a familiar gruff voice through the din. 

"Ah, ah…see my blade? It is nicely painted with your favourite colour. Yes, put your spear down. Good. Now open this _damned door."_

"Ser Davos!" she exclaimed as he barged in. The Onion Knight wiped a dagger on his plain brown jerkin, looking exceedingly relieved.

"Little hawk," he sighed, sweeping her into a tight embrace without so much as a glance to the High Priest. "Thank the Mother in her mercy. Tis time we leave this den of fire whores." 

Rhaedeny faltered, though Benerro made no move to detain her, nor did he give any signal to his Fiery Hand. He was still watching her with that incredulous expression. "So that is where little Melony went," he said softly. "I never imagined…"

Davos ignored him—as well as the girl's protests—to examine the slight burn on her cheek. He whirled around to glare at Benerro. "What have you bloody done to this girl? Are  _all_  you red demons deranged?"  

Warriors of the Fiery Hand shifted at his insolence, but Benerro only smiled. "Ah, a Westerosi. It is true? A girl from your kingdoms, she is?" 

Davos marched directly up to him, teeth bared. "Aye, she is," he grit out. "And you had better say your last for harming her. She is the daughter of the one true ki— " He caught himself, glancing at the girl and Thoros. "And you!" He raised his blade to the other priest's throat. "Her father will have your bloody head for this, fool!" Thoros cursed again, ready to defend himself. 

Now it was Rhaedeny's turn to be stunned. "My father?" she breathed. "He's alive?" Ser Davos lowered his dagger, his expression softening.

"Aye," he said softly. "And I am taking you home to meet him. Would you like that?" He took her hand, but she resisted once more.

"High Priest…it is my mother you sought, all this time?" 

He tilted his tattooed head. "So it would seem, little one. R'hllor be praised for the guidance He brings us this day."

"A spear up R'hllor's arse," Davos spat. 

Benerro blinked serenely. "I ask you forgive us our transgressions, Rhaedeny. I truly believed there a danger in your presence, but the truth has been revealed to me…and dangerous or not, your gift was always clear. You make a fine servant to the Lord." Davos growled, ready to lift his dagger to the priest. Benerro lifted a calm hand to him. "Only tell me one thing, and I shall lift the debt of my missing slave. Is she alive? This red woman she speaks of?"

The Onion Knight made to spit on the floor again, but thought better of it. "The red woman?" He finally shook his head. "Not truly." Rhaedeny's expression fell, but Benerro seemed to understand his meaning more clearly. He nodded.

"Then her servitude is broken. And I am glad for it…her chains were always her own." Davos frowned at the strange proclamation, eager to drag the girl away from the unnerving priest. "But Rhaedeny?" Benerro took her small hand in his own. His skeletal fingers encircled her entire fist. "You must act on these visions," he urged. "A dear girl, you are, and so much more. The fate of the world rests in your hands. Serve the Azor Ahai we spoke of. Find the Lord's light, and spread His peace into the dawn." She glimpsed a desperation in his gaze, then, and shuddered. "You understand, do you not?"

Rhaedeny swallowed, then nodded solemnly. "Yes, High Priest." 

He granted her his twisted smile. "Then go, with my blessing and the Lord's."

As her odd company of guardians led her down the twisting, fiery corridors, she took a last glance at the temple ceiling, the crackling fire pits, the comings and goings of the Slaves of R'hllor. "Do you believe him, Thoros? That I should do all that?" 

He glanced down at her wearily. "Rhaedeny, you are too young to ponder such mysteries," he insisted. Her red gaze was stubborn, so he sighed. "Aye, scarlet storm. You can do whatever you aspire to in this world. The Lord has shown you your destiny." 

Ser Davos snorted, flexing his shortened fingers as best he could. Before he could retort against the red god, however, a dark girl darted to block their path. Davos instinctively went to draw a weapon, but Rhaedeny caught his arm. The other girl was short of stature, perhaps of six and ten years, and draped in a ragged red robe.

"Rhaedeny Storm?" she whispered. Rhaedeny froze, and this time Thoros stepped to guard her. But the girl shook her head, pulling down her hood to reveal the familiar flame tattoo. "I will not harm you. I've heard your name these past weeks. Is it true that you were meant to attend a wedding in Winterfell? The wedding of Rickon Stark?" 

Davos took a step forward, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And how would you know that, girl?" 

She held a hand up, looking around to ensure they were alone. "I am from Westeros," she whispered. "And it is time for me to return. I need you to smuggle me back to my land." She ripped the robe off to reveal a coarse brown tunic. "Listen, sers, and Rhaedeny Storm. I have worked in the free cities for many years. I have coin from Braavos, and many skills to offer you." 

Ser Davos sighed. "And why must a red priestess flee like this? Is this place truly as evil as it looks?"  

She lifted a dark eyebrow. "Seven hells. I am no priestess."

"Then what?"

She took a bold step forward, coming nearly toe to toe with the Onion Knight. "Something far more useful," she said cryptically. Before he could pull his blade, her hands were moving at the speed of light itself, and a needle-thin sword was glinting in his face. "Believe me or don't believe me, but your king will soon have need of me." She raked her dark gaze across the three of them. "I don't wish to harm you. But I need safe passage to the North, and I will get it anyway I can. Do we have an agreement?" 

"An assassin," Davos grumbled. He pushed the blade aside. "Gods above. Bringing every damned girl home, are we?"

Thoros only smiled. "An assassin, aye. How you have grown, child."

The girl froze, realising her disguise had been blown. After an irritable sigh, she began raking at her own skin with her fingernails. Rhaedeny watched in horror as the tattoo dissolved into smooth skin, as the girl's very face melted into another's, slender and wild, hair tangled and even darker than before.

"How— " Rhaedeny ran her hand through the humid air as if she might find the answer. "Is this an illusion from R'hllor?"

The assassin sheathed her slender sword. "There is only one god," she said sharply. "He has many faces, girl…but only one name."

"Your eyes…" Rhaedeny stepped very close to the older girl's face, transfixed by what she saw there. The assassin did not flinch, only regarded her warily.

_Cold eyes. Grey eyes. Not hers, but another's. Eyes she would close forever._

Rhaedeny's own scarlet irises widened. "Death," she breathed. 


	9. PART NINE | The River Honeywine

[ ](http://www.deviantart.com/art/diplomat-596959372)

* * *

Izaak Storm fidgeted with his hands, glancing nervously at the girl at the end of the corridor. 

"Speak with her," his eldest sister urged. He looked up at her with wide eyes, and Shireen offered a pale smile. It had been a trying year for her, and the flat plane of her stomach was an ever-present reminder of that loss. But Princess Shireen could smile. She was Lady of the Stormlands, heir of the kingdoms, and beloved of the people. Beloved of her husband.

_You do not need a child to be fulfilled_.  _We do not._

Lord Rickon glanced up from scratching his black direwolf's ears. It was then he glimpsed the little girl with flowing brown hair and brown eyes as warm and wide as a doe's. "My sister brought her hostage?" he chuckled. 

Shireen tugged him up from the floor by the hand. "Your lady sister is presenting Yaelyn Tyrell to the king," she corrected gently. "We are to treat the child with all respect." 

"It's a kindness to call her Tyrell and not Lannister," Rickon grumbled, tossing another scrap of meat to his wolf. 

"A small mercy," his wife agreed, "but she is innocent of the court she came from." 

"And where is Sansa? I have yet to see mine own sister!" 

Shireen glanced at the northern servants bringing in their lady's trunks. "My father summoned an immediate audience of her. We should prepare ourselves for the feast, and brace ourselves for his dour mood." They both peeked down at Izaak, his blue eyes still locked upon the girl. Shireen smiled softly. "I believe my father might soon find a match for that child."

Just then the king himself rounded the corner, pausing at the sight of his children. "A match for whom?" He grimaced down at Shaggydog. "What is this creature doing inside?" 

The boys bowed in greeting, but Shireen only laughed. "It is winter, Father. Shall we abandon our children outside to freeze?" With that she tugged her husband toward their own chambers, leaving Izaak and Stannis just as bewildered as before. The direwolf followed down the corridor in great bounding leaps, leaving a trail of mud and melted ice upon the smooth stone. To some, it might have offered hope for a spring to come.

To Stannis Baratheon, it was a horrific mess upon his castle floor. He sighed, shaking his head in defeat. His son was still lingering about the hall, blue eyes cast upon the same muddy paw prints. "If you'd like, child, you may attend the...gathering where the Wardenness is being received. It might prove educational for you." Izaak nodded, but he was still frowning at the floor.

Somewhere in the distant hall, there was the dim, grating sound of clanging metal, bellowing voices, and mulled wine filling goblets. Stannis closed his eyes, trying to drown out the inevitable aching in his head. Both figures remained where they were, reticent to leave the comforting solitude of the main tower. Eventually, the king turned to march down the corridor. Hosting guests was unpleasant, but his duty all the same.

"Is my mother ill?"

Stannis froze, caught awkwardly under an archway. By the time he had turned around, the boy was scrutinizing him like a man scrutinized his enemy across the battlefield. It was a discomfiting experience, but the king could not feign ignorance. 

"Well, Izaak," he cleared his throat. "Your lady is…expecting." 

For a long moment, the boy only frowned to mirror his father. "Expecting what?"

* * *

_"Is there something else you'd like to tell me?"_

_Melisandre blinked, her usual grace hindered by surprise. There was no use testing his patience, so when he lifted an eyebrow at her, the confession slipped out._

_"I have not bled in two moons." The room was eerily silent for a full minute._

_"You believe—?"_

_"I knew it very early, but I preferred to be certain before I…" A moment passed. Her meaning was clear._

_"What a fool I am. What fools we both are," Stannis said tightly._

_She shook her head helplessly. "I cannot bear it. You know it is unfair to the child..."_

_"And I cannot force your decision one way or another," he admitted. "Though I— should very firmly beseech you. Stay with me…and our family."_

_"My mission— "_

_"Do what you will," he said bluntly. "It doesn't matter. I just need you. By my side."_

* * *

She was an entirely different woman in blue. Black had been startling, as it were, but in blue…she was lovelier than the sky, or the sea, or anything else in the world. 

After Izaak had finally trailed to the great hall, quite catatonic, the king walked absently in the opposite direction, seeking out his shadow. When he found her, he was utterly entranced by her blue figure. It was like a scene from a painting—not that he bothered himself with such triviality—the way the sun fell through the narrow window, how her strange scarlet eyes sparkled with the light. She was alone, as always.

Such a lonely woman, she was. He had offered her chambermaids, handmaids, ladies to accompany her, even, but she was firm in rejecting them. 

"I am no lady," she said. She was scarred and lowborn and mistrusted, even with a new identity.She kept correspondence with one friend and one friend only—her Volantene spy in Lord Baelish's brothel. It was an odd sort of companionship, even from halfway across the kingdoms. Qhava wrote of Littlefinger's rise, and the other woman burned those letters before her king could catch a glimpse. Perhaps he knew. How Littlefinger had filled the vacuum in King's Landing, exactly as he had planned. How Sansa Stark gave him all he required from her reign in the North. How the people said nothing, too terrified of Petyr's influence, too bewildered by the Stark girl's favour with the king.

How the Queen Selyse—newly instated in the Red Keep—seemed entirely oblivious to the true danger. The people had finally accepted her; she was an unpleasant woman, but the capable and respected wife of an increasingly popular king. What did the smallfolk care? She brought them food and security. She forced corruption out of court with a cold stare and a colder voice. Yet there was a sadness in her eyes as well. Like the king's  _other woman_ , she was lonely and misliked. And her only child had the misfortune of being a girl in Westeros.

At least the  _other_ woman had given the king a son, strong and intelligent. At least she traveled where he traveled, took her meals with him, slept by his side, offered her comfort and company when he had tired of all others. 

Just as the red woman had before her. 

But  _this_ womanrarely showed her face in court. Her strange eyes were rarely seen, and her voice seldom heard—except in the king's private company, where it truly mattered, and where she was truly heard. He bought her fine gifts, but she insisted on humbler designs than those befitting the lady of a king. And she accepted only dark colours. The better to blend in, she told him.He responded not with coarse black and grey robes, but splendid gowns of deep purple, the darkest emerald and the blackest sapphire. There was an array, so the people might never again pin one or the other to her. 

The king paused to study the simple auburn braid that reached her waist, an auburn so dark it might be black in the fading sun.  _I do not know why I've been cursed with affection for you, or you for me._ His eyes appraised the gentle slope of her cheek, the soft curve of her breast, the way the dark blue silk stretched taut over her belly. His approval mattered little, of course. She did not need a child to redeem her. That did not stop him from admiring the sight.

A single pale opal encircled her throat, but she was sapphire at that moment. 

_I would have you after a thousand betrayals, my lady. And we could know such contentment, you and I…_ When she finally turned, the light was broken into a thousand amber slivers, and his voice failed him.

_If only you could want me._

There was no dazzling flattery in her smile as she drifted toward him.  _You were never what I wanted, my king._ They walked in companionable silence for several minutes, and then she took his arm.

_You were what I needed._

Her gaze remained on the setting sun, though it was not a desperate gaze. The king allowed her presence to calm his anxiety for the better part of the hour. Eventually, her slight hand slipped into his own. "I have some colorful new titles," she announced softly.

"Titles, my lady?"

She turned a coy eye to him. " _The honey harlot—_ "

He groaned. "Gods, woman. Stop roaming about with those jars."

_"The honeyed whore_?" she offered. He blanched. "Perhaps if you brought me more, I would not have to sneak to the kitchens myself." She coaxed him to cease his long stride, lips searching his out. "Come, do I not taste sweeter?" 

"My lady," he warned, "I am receiving Lady Stark within the hour."

Her kisses only grew more insistent. "Ah…our little mockingbird. When are you going to marry that girl off?" 

"She is no girl."

"Quite my point, Sire." 

He sighed, pulling from her kiss. "I don't plan to marry her off. She refuses another stranger for a husband." The corridor fell silent. It was not meant to be this way, she knew, and so did he. But they were only flesh and blood, no matter how hard they tried to deny it.

"Do you love her?" 

The king recoiled in shock. "What?" She avoided his eyes, feeling quite mortified with the outburst. He snorted. "This is like the time you accused me of taking a northern whore. Since when are you such a jealous woman?"

"Since you are surrounded by women more beautiful than me."

His face softened, though his incredulity did not entirely fade. "Do not concern yourself. It's as I've said before. If ever I became such a lecher, the fields would be black with women fleeing Westeros."

Melisandre pulled from his embrace. "Do not mock me."

"It's no mockery if it's true. I am old. My fiftieth name day approaches. And why the gods see fit to drag this misery on so long— "

"You miserable, miserable man," she agreed.

The full idea set in, then, along with his amusement. "Sansa Stark, gods, she'd be scrambling to the seventh hell to hide!" 

_"Stannis."_   

"Continue sulking. Your anger is most endearing." His hands slipped back over her body. "My shadow, mine only…you are surely a fool. Alas. Did you know there is a river in the Reach, the Honeywine, well-known for its delicacies? Upon the eastern bank lies Honeyholt, the seat of House Beesbury." 

Her hands grudgingly crept up his doublet. "That is not a real House."

"It most certainly is." Stannis pulled her into a shadowed alcove. "In springtime I will take you there— in reparation for my offenses—and you may eat all the honey you wish, until you are round with more than child."  

Her lips twisted down in a scowl. "The babe will be here long before spring."

"There may be another," he said casually. 

The stone hollow suddenly felt very warm. "You've proven your point," she grumbled, cheeks burning. He stroked the column of her neck, and she sighed, allowing him to kiss her deeply. The corridors of Storm's End were silent now, but they remained hidden in their passion, limbs tangled in their little alcove.

"Will you attend me at the great hall?" he murmured. 

Melisandre buried her contented moan against his shoulder, feeling absurdly like a lover in a song. "Moments ago you were fleeing my embrace for Sansa Stark. There is no need to continue apologizing, my king."

"Yet it seems I cannot get enough of you," he muttered. Her resistance melted with each ardent kiss. "You won't join me then?" 

"Nay, my lord," she breathed. "I am fully a woman these days, with all the pains and grievances that brings. But I shall be waiting in our rooms until you return, like a docile little mistress."

Stannis snorted. "When the hells freeze over, you will." He cut off her wicked grin with a kiss. "Gods, have you always been so irresistible?" After another heated moment, he finally forced himself to pull away. 

"I was right, then," she breathed in disbelief. Her ruby lips curled up slowly. "The honey is growing on you too."

He groaned, allowing her to tug at his breeches. 

By the time he finally strode into the great hall, its dark walls were alive with Baratheon and Stark sigils, candlelight and the heady scent of wine filling the air. The king's men stood with questioning looks and knowing smiles, which he ignored with burning ears. Izaak sunk into the seat nearest, eyes still wide from the earlier news. It seemed after so many years of winter and pain, wars and battles with demons of ice and flesh—the prospect of an infant was most terrifying of all.

"I may have a brother," he realised, equally apprehensive and intrigued by the idea. 

Stannis frowned down at him, then back to the raucous northerners on the other side of the hall. "I should hope it is a girl." Sansa Stark rose to make her way to his table with the fostered Tyrell girl, grey furs glistening with a regality he both loathed and admired. His son had taken to grimacing in silence. "What?" the king demanded. "Would you not like another sister?" 

"Papa," sighed Izaak. His voice was gravely serious. "Enough is enough."

* * *

As he watched Yaelyn wandering the great hall, his father's dour voice echoed through his mind.

_In any courtship, without exception, you must always say 'yes' to your lady._

Such was the stern king's counsel as they sat to break their fast that morning. In the past few months they had settled their odd routine, meeting in his private rooms at dawn for an hour of domesticity. There they would sit in comfortable solitude, he and his newfound mother and father, and partake of a simple meal. Sometimes his sister Shireen would join them, her smile kind and gentle. For all its strangeness, Izaak decided it was his favourite part of the day. A family to break bread with was a stability he had never known as a fosterling. Soon, he prayed,  _soon_   Ser Davos would return with his other sister, and she would light up the room with her red eyes, and they would finally be a true family. Mostly, he just wanted her to share the joy that he now felt.

For the time being, however, it was he and his father in sporadic conversation.His mother had been unwell as of late, her complexion far too pale and her voice far too quiet. Most mornings she sat by the fire, keeping her attention on its flames while the king offered his grim advice. _A lady is worthy of every respect,_  he would lecture. _Forget your own happiness, and focus upon hers._ It seemed simple enough to Izaak, but from the way his mother sometimes glared at his father, even a grown man had much to learn.

As her belly grew, so did her restless temper, made worse by the maester's instruction that she prepare for an early confinement. That morning she found pleasure in stabbing her honeyed bread with a knife. "Oh, always say  _yes_  to a lady," she said softly, her tone quite contradicting the violent motions of her hands. 

_There is nothing so crucial as to keep your lady contented._

"How very rare to hear those words on your lips, Stannis. And how offended you seem when your lady is not content with bedrest and stitching, whilst you enjoy such frequent meetings with your pretty  _northern_  guest."

_And above all, Izaak..._

Stannis fixed his dry scowl upon the ceiling. "Forgive your wretched king, darling." 

_Never, ever argue with her._

"Are you the prince?" 

Izaak nearly jumped, startled by the lovely girl before him. In his absent musing, she had drifted toward his lean figure. "Good day, my lady," he managed. Her lips lifted slightly, and he had to blink to focus upon her question. "No, not really. My father is the king, but my mother is not the queen...so I suppose I cannot be a prince. It is all...rather confusing." 

To his surprise, she nodded in understanding. "I know...I was princess once. Now, my mother and my father..." Her lower lip quivered, and Izaak felt a panic grip his chest. 

"Don't cry," he panicked. "Oh, please don't…" With a sudden recklessness he grabbed her hands, ignoring the pounding in his chest. "Listen, you will be a princess again, I swear it, you shall never want for anything— "

"How?" she sniffled, brown eyes impossibly wide. 

For the first time in his short life, the sun seemed to gleam golden. It was most fascinating to consider her hair, long and rich as fine chocolate, shining warmly in the winter morning. Izaak swallowed nervously, then pulled his cloak from his lean shoulders. "Here," he said awkwardly, "In sight of the Lord, and your Seven, I take you under my protection. Some day I will be a true lord, and you shall be my lady." 

Those doe eyes stared back at him, and he felt paralysed, anxious that he had done a foolish thing. But Yaelyn only shrugged, awestruck, into the black and gold cloak. "That would be nice," she whispered shyly. Her eyes fell upon his goshawk, perched crookedly upon a distant candleabra. "She must be a good hunter. I had wondered to see her fly..." 

"Redwing is not very— " Izaak hastily stopped himself.  _Always say yes to a lady._  "Oh. Would you…accompany me hawking?" The girl beamed in response, and he let out a sigh of relief. 

Marriage would be simple indeed. 

* * *

The mockingbird had grown.

Now she was truly a northern wolf, with no hint of that sweet girl Melisandre had first glimpsed on the north-bound ship.  _I rise_  w _ith my red hair,_ Sansa said, and indeed she had. This jaded woman before her had risen far beyond Sansa Stark. Admittedly the priestess's own transformation was just as shocking, though softened by the dim light of the candles.  _A small blessing from R'hllor._

"Lady Stark," Melisandre greeted, dipping in a bow as best she could. "I have been waiting a very long time to speak with you."  _And very quickly I have been_ _losing my patience._ It was rather humiliating to be denied an audience by a guest in her own home. Not that her pride mattered. She had been playing this game a long time, waiting upon the beck and call of true lords and ladies since she first set foot on Dragonstone. Now it was late in the evening, and most of the castle had retired—including her king. But she had slipped away from his side, refusing to miss her chance.

Sansa eyed the priestess and her scars warily. Then she motioned to the opposite end of the table in her rooms. "Sit, if you wish. I did not realize you were with child."

The younger woman's lack of greeting was not lost upon Melisandre. Still, she pretended not to notice, taking the offered seat with a bright smile. "Now is as good a time as ever, Lady Stark. I wished to thank you for advocating on behalf of Izaak— "

"Stannis's bastard?"

The priestess blinked. "Yes."

Sansa leaned back, hands folded neatly. "Go on."

"Yes." Melisandre straightened her posture. "Lady Stark, I must request another favour."

The young woman sighed. "Do not fool yourself, priestess. My support for the king's son was no 'favour,' and it certainly does not concern you."

Melisandre's feigned humility finally cracked. "Of course it concerns me," she retorted. "He is my son too." But Sansa did not apologize, nor did she give the priestess so much as an interested glance, choosing instead to study her goblet. "Did you think it would be so simple to claim Izaak as your own?" Melisandre blurted. "Did you think that because I was gone, you could so easily step in to manipulate the king?" The words had flown unbidden to her lips, and she quickly cursed her abrupt change of temper.  _Are you so weak now, that this girl is more composed, more powerful than you?_

The younger woman only lifted an eyebrow, brushing aside her auburn hair with an unhurried hand. "That is a rude accusation. I would not know the answers."

"I believe you know a great many things, girl, things which endanger your little  _game_  with the king."

"Yes, the king...does he know you are here?" Melisandre hesitated, and that was confirmation enough. Sansa smiled for the first time, but it was not a genuine smile. "He wouldn't permit it, would he? No…so you resort to sneaking behind his back to get what you want. You should have learned the first time around, priestess. Men use things and they take things. And each time you accept their empty promises, their empty apologies, they take a dozen things more. Your voice, your freedom…your children. Those things cannot be replaced with fine gifts."  

The priestess felt as if she had been dealt a blow to the chest.  _Words are less than wind,_ she told herself, but she was far too human now to feign transcendence. "Why do you dislike me so?" 

For a brief moment, she saw the slightest glimpse of surprise in the girl's gaze. "I dislike everyone," Sansa said flatly. "When honour is dead, it is a challenge indeed to trust anyone."

Melisandre opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. This was not what she had expected. "I understand," she managed.

"No, you really don't," Sansa snapped.

"I do."

"You  _do?_   Truly? Do you have any idea what I have suffered in the past years? Where I came from, and what my life is now? My entire family has been taken from me, even Rickon, because I was born into a corrupt cycle I will never break free from. You think my life is so simple because I won back Winterfell? I see nothing but serpents in a hall of men who lay praises at my feet. The only person I can trust is my brother at the Wall, and he wakes knowing each day may be his last. Even with him alive, there is no end in sight to this winter. How can I keep my people safe and fed? How, when I refuse to be bought by a new husband, and I have no alliance to rely upon? I will tell you how. Yes, I am forced to seek the favour of an utterly  _impossible_  king. If I were a man, I would not need to do so, would not need to prove my abilities. Men would not whisper behind my back when I try to negotiate with this lord or that. Nay, no man would be so scrutinized, but I am not a man, so I am forced to feign ignorance, to smile and flatter and dance, just to keep my birthright in the North. Make no mistake—I will do what I must. I will not be some man's helpless plaything. I am a lady, born true and noble. But do not think for one  _second_  I take pleasure in this charade, because there is no heavier burden in the world. A whore cannot possibly understand the game I play each day!"

The words hung bitter in the air.  _Like iron,_ Melisandre thought.  _Iron as it rusts and decays upon a dead man's armour_.

To her relief, Sansa's rage abated, quickly replaced by the gracious impulses of her nature. "Forgive me," she sighed. "That was…unkind."

For once, Melisandre did not attempt to hide her frown. "You need not apologize. I will not run to the king and demand punishment." 

"I mean it, my lady. The apology is sincere." 

Meilsandre studied the young woman with her unnerving gaze. "Look at us both. We were never meant to be enemies, you and I. This is not how it should be."

Sansa frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Never mind that...It is better I am brief with my visit." Still, Melisandre remained silent for a long moment, finding the fire infinitely more alive than it had been in the past years. "Littlefinger will turn his treason on the king any day now. Anyone might have guessed that. The problem, Lady Stark…is you." She turned her red gaze upon Sansa. 

"Is that a threat?"

Melisandre titled her head. "Come now." She rose and glided dangerously close to the wardenness, allowing her to glimpse the feverish red gleam of her eyes. "You dragged Stannis into this alliance. If you wish to win this game, you had best prove your allegiance to him...in light of such treachery. I am willing to assist you in that regard. Assure him of your loyalty."

The younger woman sighed, realising she could not play ignorant. "What do you ask in return?"

"I think you know," Melisandre said softly. "Though I'm not  _asking_  anymore." 

Sansa considered this for a long moment, her beautiful features conflicted. "As you want," she said tightly, rising to her feet. "I will send the raven at once." 

The priestess smiled pleasantly. "Thank you, Lady Stark." She folded her hands, setting her gaze upon the fire. "Dear mockingbird…I fear you look unfavourably upon me. But this need not be an unhappy partnership. I know what you have been seeking all along from Stannis. And I will help you get it." 

"What could you possibly offer me?"

Melisandre stepped forward to slip something into the younger woman's palm, light and cool and silver. "The thing you desire most in this world, Sansa."

By the time Sansa looked up from the mockingbird brooch, the priestess was gone. 

* * *

The king rounded the arch of her bedchamber, halting once he glimpsed over the fire. "Where have you been? What is the meaning of this?"

"Can I not watch the flames?" she murmured.

Suddenly he was before her, stormy eyes scrutinising her like daggers. "You are standing. How long have you been standing?" 

"Stannis— " She made a noise of displeasure when he attempted to drag her over to the bed. "Leave me  _alone_ ," she snapped, wresting from his harsh grasp. 

"You should not be standing," he said evenly, as if he were trying very hard to control his voice.

Her scarlet eyes glared up with the intensity of a searing fire. "Perhaps _you_  should not be standing. Perhaps  _you_  should be confined to a bed, limited to a chair by the fire, defending your freedom to come and go, explaining every insignificant choice— "

He snorted. "Am I imagining this obscenity?"

"Are you one to imagine obscenities, my king?" 

"Do not dare mock me, woman!"

Melisandre gripped the front of his doublet none too gently. "Then do not forget your own words of advice," she hissed. A mad fire raced through her veins, leaving her burning.  _Aching_. "You are correct that you should always say  _yes_  to your lady. And presently, your lady is telling you to get down on your knees." It was a rare sight when Stannis Baratheon's eyes were not slitted in suspicion. Now they were wide as saucers, much to her delight. " _Down_ ," she whispered. Her slender fingers jerked downward, and down he went. 

Afterward, when she was panting and the crazed longing had passed, he rose and stared at her with a slightly wary gaze. "Will you— " he began hoarsely, and she expected him to chastise her. But he only wiped his mouth on his sleeve in an exceedingly uncharacteristic gesture, and then he pulled her into a crushing embrace. His long fingers cradled her head against his shoulder for a silent minute. 

_One, two, three—_ She counted his heartbeat as it pounded against her ear. _Four, five, s_ _ix._ The fervent tempo was slowing down.  _Seven. Eight._

When Stannis finally pulled back, it was only to sigh and kiss her forehead. "Don't do that again," he said sternly, but it sounded more like a plea than a reprimand.

"Do what?"  _Negotiate behind your back? Order you about? Push your face between my thighs?_

He looked at her strangely. "Never leave...like that. It is unbecoming for a king to stumble through his castle in a panic, thinking his lady has abandoned him."  

For a long moment, Melisandre was too stunned to reply. "I will never abandon you…"

"Why?" he asked bluntly. 

She blinked, and suddenly she was back on the shores of Dragonstone, wanting desperately to flee and wanting sinfully to stay. "I do not know," she admitted. 

Stannis frowned, and then he forced the words from his mouth. "Then you would never...say yes to your lord? As he does to you?"

Her brow furrowed. "Yes to what?" 

He seemed to be restraining himself from saying something. Eventually he smiled crookedly, and the sight was more sad than joyful. "Let us retire, my lady."

Sleep did not come to her for many hours. Her aching eyes watched the fire, her chest weighed down by something she could not identify. When R'hllor finally made the answer known amidst the swirling ash, her heart pounded as wild as the king's had. "Stannis," she murmured, and though she knew he was deep in slumber, she pressed her lips to his cool neck. "Yes," she sighed. "My answer is yes."


	10. PART TEN | The Most Red Sunrise

[ ](http://a-wandering-minstrel.tumblr.com/post/141592620547/dune-child-alia-dune-adult-alia)

* * *

 It was not until the winds had picked up again, icy and sharp as daggers, that the mild contentment at Storm's End was cut short, and Lady Sansa was urged back to Winterfell.    

> _The Night's Watch warns of the greatest battle yet, a thousand, thousand demons rising beyond the Wall._ _It is time we order the smallfolk to move south._ _Your ladyship must petition his_ _Grace. We need men. Do not leave until he sends a sizeable army north with you. There is no room for negotiation._
> 
> _Gods be with you, Lady Stark, until you are safely returned to Winterfell._
> 
> _{  Your brother the Lord Commander forwards the following message:_
> 
> _"Burn every body you find on the Kingsroad."  }_

To her apprehension, the dour king already seemed plagued with concerns, both of the Long Night and the Iron Throne. The servants whispered how the corridors were haunted each night with his pacing, troubled lines carved into the already harsh planes of his face. Sharp voices echoed against the stone walls, sometimes early into the morning.

_"You said yes. You said you would wait for me, that you'd never abandon m— "_

_"I said yes to being by your side,"_ the woman would argue back, bitter tears marring the beauty of her voice. _"Your bannermen had everything to do with this. I have become too visible for their liking— "_

_"You are my lady. You have a duty."_ The words were so hard they felt like a blow. _"Do you understand? I will not lose you. I will not drag my child into death."_

The panic in the North was equalled only by the political insecurity of the southron kingdoms. And the evening before Sansa's northern party departed, the king was finally confronted with the very real threat of Daenerys Targaryen.

"So this is where Sansa's husband ran off to," he said sourly. "Or who, rather."

Melisandre balanced her jar of honey upon her middle, twisting to snatch the letter from him. The bed creaked ominously with the effort. "I may break the bed before this beast tears from my body," she informed him. 

The king snorted. "You are a slight thing, even in your condition. Unless it is another set of twins."

"Are you trying to be funny? It does not suit you." 

Stannis plucked the letter back from her sticky hands. "Not at all."

"I was reading that," she said sharply. He did not respond, and she released a very long sigh. "Will you not give me any amusement?"

The king squinted at the parchment. "Shortly I will give you this letter to burn, for the imp is quite presumptuous, and quite mad."

"Well and good. I would rather you fuck me."

He grimaced at her vulgar speech. "You know what Maester Pylos said, my lady. It is not good for the babe."

Melisandre pursed her lips at the fire. "A fool with an ugly chain," she said coolly. After another moment without a reaction, she finally set aside her honey and pressed against him as gracefully as she could. "Come, my king. We did this with the twins, and they...survived." Her lips brushed temptingly against his ears and neck, but he still did not look up from the letter. "My king," she pouted, "I am quite bored, and burning like a cat in heat. What would you have me do?"

"You are well past your heat, and successfully bred," he said wryly. "Rest, without concern for such depravity."

She clambered off him to glower at the fire. "Is that all I can do now? Lie useless in bed?"

"You are not lying uselessly. You are carrying a child. And now— " He finally passed off the offending scroll to her— "You are counseling me on this foolish letter." He moved to spread his large hands over her belly. 

She sighed, scanning the odd scrawl. After all these years, the common tongue still seemed ineloquent. "I do not understand. What does this Lannister say?" 

But Stannis had lost patience for the letter. "Can you hear your papa?" he murmured, pressing his lips to the firm curve of her shift. "You and your mama will have a castle all to yourself, and a fine view of the Honeywine. Will you like that? And when papa visits, he will be sure to always bring you a gift. He has already bought dolls for your nursery." 

She glanced down at him in exasperation. "Do you never consider that it could be a boy?" 

"Your mother is quite mad, is she not? You are most certainly my princess."

Melisandre shoved at his strong shoulders. "Are you truly seeking my opinion, or conspiring with the savage kicking my ribs? 

"Your opinion as always, my queen. I wanted your opinion before I brought it to small council."

"Or you could simply…" she shot him a very dry look, "…bring  _me_  to small council." 

"I don't want you in small council. I want you here, where I can hear your voice more clearly."  

"It seems you'd rather Davos's voice," she muttered under her breath.

Stannis pulled back, scandalized by the thought.  _"Davos_  does not advise me in bed."

She lifted a dark eyebrow. "Are you sure?" 

"Woman! It is not right for such japes," he scolded. "Soon you will not be by my side all the time. No longer will you be my shadow, but a true lady _._  Running a keep and lands by your own command. Is that not pleasing to you?"

Melisandre shifted, annoyed with the ache in her back. "Oh, my king. I do see through your scheming."

"My  _scheming?_  Am I Littlefinger? No, I do not scheme." 

"I would believe it, if you did not impregnate me each time I threatened to do something  _truly_  useful." 

Stannis narrowed his eyes at her. "When will you accept that you are not something to be  _used?"_

Her own red eyes watched him warily. "I am no fool," she insisted. "Men say one thing and mean the other. You most certainly enjoy me like this. You will enjoy leaving me in that castle to lounge about in silk dresses and wait upon your return." 

"You have an hysteric imagination," he insisted. His priestess only stared stubbornly at him. " _Red_  silk?" he slyly questioned.

"Only when you are not there. When you do visit I will be dressed in nothing…nothing but the jewels of a highborn lady."

"Then perhaps I shall enjoy it indeed." 

Melisandre made several alarming noises of displeasure, attempting to wrench herself away from him. He chuckled and caught her in his arms. "Do not delude yourself. I am giving you a great responsibility. Wardenness of the South…you will be the first woman to claim such a title…and the first who is not a Tyrell. Yours is a crucial position, in a region where usurper support is still strong. I certainly did not want to give it to Littlefinger! I don't trust him to negotiate with this lord or that, to oversee the nightmare of alliances and disputes and betrothals in the Reach. He thinks only for himself. You are a priestess, not a power-seeker. I trust  _you_  to control the dissent while we fight in the North."

"I had thought to be there, by your side…"

"Not with my child, and not while your sorcery is still weakened," he said sharply. He traced the scars on her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I know it is a strange castle in an unfamiliar land, so different from what you know of Westeros…but that is precisely the point. I want to drive every darkness from your memory. I want you to have your damned honey and the sea close by. Warmth. The red sunrise.  _That_  is why I grant you the Reach."  _How had she come to this?_  

"Lady of Brightwater Keep," she mused.

_Could she accept a life of such weakness? Such meaningless contentment?_ Brightwater was the seat of his wife's House, though the Florents had long been driven out by Lannister sympathisers. "That is why it is all the more necessary you govern there," he had said. "I do not wish to seize Highgarden from the remaining Tyrells. It will only bring strife and headache. But Izaak will marry their girl in the spring. If he can gain favour at Highgarden and Oldtown, those grumbling fools may quiet their grumbling. Remember— " he gave her a serious look — "this is for the babe as much as you. Our children deserve a life beyond the miserable duties of our own." That sentiment was not unreasonable.

In any case, she could no longer convince herself that such a life would be so  _meaningless_. 

"I have already given you my answer," she sighed, relaxing into his embrace. "Only promise me, Stannis…when the time comes, when the Lord returns Rhaedeny to you, you must allow me to guide her future, and I must finish the task I have been given. No matter how...difficult it may be." He stiffened, but she took his hand soothingly. "Trust me. I do not pretend to be a mother, but I would not harm her. I never could." 

Eventually his suspicion was surpassed, even if only a little, by his weakness. "I will of course send her to you. Do as you like. You are queen in your own right."

"Not a true queen," she chastised him. Sensing his obliging mood, she leaned forward and kissed him languidly. "Only one of many..."

"One of many," he agreed, a grimace tugging at his lips. "And I am slave to all of them. Gods only know how you've convinced me to be ruled by women from all directions…"

She hummed and forced his mouth back to hers. Stannis Baratheon was a man of dramatic disposition, of imagined slights and incessant complaints. But in this, he was not wrong. The king was subject to his wife, Selyse Florent, Queen of the Iron Throne and the Crownlands. He was ruled by the demands of Sansa Stark, Wardenness of the North and the East. He could not bear to see his trueborn daughter dragged to Winterfell to freeze with her husband, and was instead content to call her the Storm Queen, Protector of the Riverlands, heir to the Iron Throne. And there were still others to appease: bold Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Islands; fierce Arianne Martell, princess of Dorne; even her heiress at Sunspear—the bastard Myrcella Lannister. 

Now he was challenged by Daenerys Targaryen, this dragon queen across the Narrow Sea. It was most absurd, in his eyes.

On the one hand, Daenerys posed the most grave threat to his reign in Westeros. On the other hand, she offered the only hope beyond the Wall. For all the kingdoms' steady ignorance, darkness continued to push heavily upon the Wall, and it would not survive much longer. The time had come for the most delicate battle to be fought.

Melisandre knew this. She knew the salvation of the world still depended on her. This time, she would not fail.

_They_  would not fail.

"You are a smart man to heed my word," she said coyly. "And after, when you take your throne at last, shall you forget me in my little castle?"

The king lifted an eyebrow. "On the contrary, I should think to spend my days there oft as possible. I despise King's Landing for what it is, a valley of piss and filth." 

She tried to smile pleasantly, but anxiety churned both cold and hot in her belly, both for the coming battle and what would come after. "And well that you do, my king. I have little else to live by."

Stannis frowned. "You have your god, and your children," he pointed out. When she did not agree, his voice became less patient. "Don't you see how our son loves you? And Rhaedeny will understand what you must do in regard to your…mission. She will help you, and love you just as equally, if you only ask it of her."

Melisandre's smile faltered only slightly. There was no longer any threatening voice in her head, no excruciating pain at her throat or punishing blood between her thighs. But the words came just as naturally to her. "I am not made for love."

He sighed irritably. "You are my lady, and if you claim that I do not love you, I will remove your tongue." The priestess stared at him shock. After a long moment, she opened her mouth, but Stannis held a finger to her lips. "Remember. Your tongue is at stake."

* * *

She woke to calloused hands running over her belly. 

"Rise, my shadow," said he. "We must ride for Winterfell." 

She furrowed her brow drowsily. No dawn streamed through the shutters. "Winterfell, my king? With the Lady Sansa?" 

He sighed. "I gave you my promise," he said, and then he scooped her into his arms.  _What promise?_  She was meant to be escorted to her new keep in the Reach, to give birth in the southron sunshine, not dragged back north where death plagued the ground and sky. Melisandre frowned through her lethargic thoughts, vaguely aware of cold air, of being settled sidesaddle onto his own horse. Strong arms reached around her for the reigns, and she burrowed hazily into a familiar chest. Soon sleep claimed her once more. On and on they rode, and the cruel winds of winter stung against their skin. 

Somewhere along the Neck she began to feel delirious. "My king," she murmured, "the child quickens so often." He was slightly alarmed, but she was too feverish to take note of his reaction and reassure him. The fluttering sensation rippled down her belly, strange and sharp and incessant, but she was certain it was simply the sign of a strong, healthy son. She buried herself further into his cloak, her voice nothing more than a sigh in the wind. "I wish to call him Esraas." 

He scoffed, and the sound seemed a world away. "It is a girl."

She did not know how many weeks they had been riding, how long she had been in and out of fitful rest. A cold hand was pressed to her forehead. "My love…" Her red eyes finally fluttered open to settle upon her king, standing weary and concerned next to the horse. She managed a strained smile before gazing up at the familiar grey stronghold. Winterfell was more alive than it had been even at Shireen's wedding. The bleak courtyard was filled with Stannis's men unloading from the journey, along with Sansa and her host, and still others she did not recognise. Evidently the Lady Sansa had revived its trade, and the castle thrived with all manner of life. It was as if the dark letter had not been true. As if this were not the most deadly winter the world had ever known. 

A strange power seemed to be looming in the grey air. Melisandre could sense falsehoods and facades from a sea away, could cut through mummer's tricks and flattering smiles with one red glance. It was a skill she had gained in Asshai, where everyone was veiled, masked, draped in shadow. 

And here, at this moment, things were not quite right.

"Yes, I understand now…" Her breath seemed to burn straight through the icy air. "I have seen this is in the flames, my king."

He lifted her gingerly off the horse, ignoring her rambling. "Are you well?" he demanded. She winced as he set her on her feet. The ride had been painful in her condition. "You are unwell," he hastily concluded. He swept her off her feet, marching toward the castle with determination.  

"My king..." She glanced around uneasily as he carried her, taking note of the shock that they were inspiring. "It is not right for you to— " 

"The world will have to tolerate it. Now hush." 

Melisandre did not like to be quieted. "I have two perfectly good feet," she muttered. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "So perfect they should not be used for walking." 

Her eyes rolled of their own accord, but when she allowed her arms to curl about his neck, the whispers and stares melted away with the rest of the world.  _There are a thousand women to appease in the world,_  she realised,  _a thousand to be tempted by, a thousand to respect and fear._  

But before the thousands, her king served one.

After several minutes trudging through the heavy snow, he abruptly stopped walking. "I gave you my promise," he said again. It was then she followed his gaze to Thoros, Ser Davos and two girls across the white courtyard. The younger girl turned, black braid unkempt and dark robes frayed. Her scarlet eyes seemed to scrutinize them. "Guide her well," Stannis sighed. "Our children are destined for far greater than we ever were."

* * *

When Shireen had initially described Winterfell, it all seemed quite bleak. Now that Rhaedeny was actually there, however, it was a place where the air crackled with a strange, thrilling power. A place where a thousand whispers of magic and betrayal and the seasons all slithered over each other.

The king, on the other hand, was every bit as foreboding as the princess had warned. There he stood, tall and stern in stiff leather, setting a bundled woman upon her feet. Ser Davos straightened up and tugged Rhaedeny forward, falling onto his knees next to Thoros in the icy mud. Lady Sansa led the people of the castle to follow suit.

Rhaedeny peeked up at the king from under her eyelashes, watching as he inspected the yard.  _Stannis of the House Baratheon._  So this was the man who had fostered her and her brother.  _But why?_   Her breath caught as she recognised the serious face, the deep blue eyes which softened upon her slight figure in the mud.  _R'hllor, can it be…?_

"You are called Rhaedeny?" 

She glanced uneasily at Ser Davos, but he gave her an encouraging look. "Y-yes, your Grace." 

The king frowned and nodded, as if he were unsure what next to do. "Rise," he said to Ser Davos. The Hand obeyed, and Stannis clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "Well met, Lord Seaworth. I am heartened to see my knight returned, albeit slower than a tortoise in the mud." Ser Davos chuckled, and the rest of the yard finally joined them on their feet. The king next turned his unforgiving gaze to her red priest, who was already sweating. "But  _you_ ," he grit out, teeth clenched forcefully. "Your worthless head will be mine, and I'll not lose a night of sleep over it."

"Nay, my king," came a soft voice. His blue eyes flickered over to the woman, who stepped forward for the first time. "Spare Thoros," she entreated. "His intentions were in the right place, and he can always be of use to you."

But her words were lost amid the curiosity she was inspiring. Her hair was a long tangle of dark auburn framing her pale, heart-shaped face. She was slender, though even a heavy woolen cloak could not hide her swollen belly. But perhaps most odd was the teardrop of ink upon her cheek and the red scars below. Red scars, and red eyes, Rhaedeny realised. 

_Red eyes…?_

Ser Davos, for one, was unable to censor himself. "I travel a few months, and the sorceress is procreating again?" The strange woman flushed and averted her scarlet eyes as everyone set their gazes upon her middle. But Davos was not finished. He turned a bold eye to the king. "Will the sight of this witch always plague your kingdoms?" The woman looked up sharply, but humiliation clouded her ability to retort. 

The king was not so reticent. "You abuse your tongue, smuggler," he warned.

"To speak the truth?!" Davos exploded, fisting his shortened knuckles as if in defense. "Twas she who told me if half an onion's rot, the whole thing's rot! By her own judgment, then, she's a traitor through and through, and I daresay there's far more than  _half_  of her that's rotten!" 

The so-called sorceress frowned. "I was wrong," she said tightly. "In this, you spoke more true. We all have parts good and bad, and I am no exception. Are you glad to hear it?" 

Ser Davos snorted. "You'll betray him, just like you've always done— "

" _Enough_ ," the king hissed, even as the courtyard was filled with restless voices.

"No, she— "

"— _has done her penance,_ " the king said coldly. "As will you." The whispering ceased as his hand found the small of the woman's back, pulling her close to his side. "My lady will hear your apology. Else I might truly question your loyalty."

Ser Davos swallowed the retort that came to his lips. His eyes betrayed incredulity, as if asking,  _You would still choose her over me?_  "I apologise if I have offended your Grace." The king watched him expectantly. Davos exhaled. "And you, priestess."

The priestess seemed unsure how to respond, but the king did not hesitate. "She is Wardenness of the South," he informed the crowd. Rhaedeny observed shock and displeasure pass over each cold face. All but one. A smile tugged at the corner of Lady Stark's mouth. Until now she had remained silent near the stables.

"Both ends of Westeros kissed by fire," Sansa said dryly. The men glanced over at her uneasily, but the king did not rebuke her.  _What an eventful day this is shaping up to be,_ Rhaedeny thought. 

The woman with scarlet eyes suddenly glanced up at the king, and they seemed to have a conversation without saying a thing. "Alas, my lady is weary from the road," he said tensely, not taking his concerned eyes from her. 

Sansa spoke up again, finally walking forward. "Allow me to show you your chambers."

"But quickly, Lady Stark," he said firmly. The strange group began to brush through the crowd without so much as another word. It was just then a shout pierced through the bitter air. 

_"Sansa!"_

The wardenness immediately broke off and strode toward the familiar voice. The sound of clashing metal erupted across the courtyard. Stannis instinctively unsheathed his sword, as did his men. 

"Your Grace," someone shouted. "Treason— !"

The king recoiled as chaos overtook Winterfell. "Davos!" he barked, "Take my lady inside, and the child, and find the maester! _"_ With that he pushed through his men and stalked toward the source of the conflict. Rhaedeny ducked and escaped to follow the king instead, apprehensive yet intrigued by all the excitement. Thankfully, no one paid her any mind, and the scuffle was ended as soon as it had begun. They were all too busy encircling a slender man in fine southron robes. Surrounded, he quickly dropped his dagger, lifting his arms up slowly. 

" _Littlefinger_ ," the king hissed.  

To her shock, the slighter man fell to his knees with a smile. "Your Grace. Allow me— " 

The king silenced the man but hoisting him up by his collar, grinding his teeth all the while. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. 

"He fled King's Landing," Thoros piped up. "The Volantene woman came with, after she wrote your lady— "

" _I know that_ ," Stannis hissed. He turned his livid gaze back to Littlefinger, who offered no resistance. "I asked you a question." 

Petyr's cold grey eyes did not betray his fear. "Sansa," he said simply. The king scowled, his gaze sliding up to the woman in question. Lady Stark walked slowly toward the two men. "Sansa," Petyr said again, "oh, my dear mockingbird. I knew you would answer." He lifted an eyebrow at Stannis. "She always does."

The king's eyes narrowed to deadly slits. "Is that so, Lady Stark?"

Sansa said nothing in defense, only folded her hands neatly before her. It was then Rhaedeny noticed her dark traveling companion amongst them for the first time, moving quiet as a shadow through the crowd. 

The king's voice was harsh as it boomed across Winterfell. "Let it be clear that this traitor—this conniving snake—has planned more destruction than the demons north of the Wall. I suspected Cersei, but I learned of this man's hand in the death of Jon Arryn." Some men murmured in surprise. "Petyr Baelish, I so charge you with the murder of the lord of this keep, Eddard Stark, his lady wife and his children, and with high treason, for plotting the murder of my royal wife and my daughter, the Princess Shireen." There were exclamations of shock throughout the crowd, but Stannis held up a stern hand. "Quickly, let him be put to death, and so rid my kingdoms of his greed. I pass this justice to a Stark of Winterfell." Just then, a young man erupted into the circle, lifting his heavy sword above his head.

"Gladly," he muttered.

"Jon, _no!"_   Sansa scrambled between his blade and Littlefinger, spreading her arms like a net over his chest. The moment seemed to stand still. " _No_ ," she repeated firmly. 

The young man froze in disbelief, lowering his sword slowly. "Sansa…?" 

"Lord Snow," the king interrupted dryly, "it is timely to see you arrived. Now you might explain your sister's treachery." 

The lord commander only shook his dark head in confusion, and Sansa spoke up, her voice unwavering. "I sent the raven," she confessed. "I told Lord Baelish he would have safe shelter here." 

_"Why?"_   Jon demanded furiously. "How c— "

"The king's priestess told me to," she replied. Stannis recoiled in shock, glancing up at the tower where his lady had been taken. Sansa paid this no mind, however. Her eyes were fixed upon Jon. "I'm sorry," she insisted. "You are one of us, you know you always will be. But this man—and his crimes—are mine.  _Ours_." Behind her, Petyr had begun to chuckle smoothly. 

"Ah, your Grace, never one to inspire loyalty…not even your lovely red priestess." 

Stannis clenched Lightbringer in his rage, but Sansa moved before he. Her hair shone red-orange as she nodded once, twice to an unseen figure. It was then Rhaedeny heard the assassin's voice, clear and composed as it always was when she chanted her lists.

_"Littlefinger."_

Her small figure darted forward, as if in an intricate dance, her needle blade glinting dully. It made a whip-sharp slice through the air. Then, just as quickly as she'd moved, she was backing away, and Lord Baelish was left standing catatonic.

"How right you were, Petyr…" Bitter tears tracked down Sansa's cheeks. She dropped a small silver object at his feet.  _"Any man is undone by the right woman."_

He did not respond. After a silent moment, a thin line of crimson blossomed about his throat, and he fell quite smoothly to his knees to grasp at the mockingbird on the slick ground. Within minutes it—and all his fine clothing—were soaked in his own dark blood.

The entire castle was frozen with shock. Then Jon spat upon the ground, the hint of a smile at his lips. "Stuck him with the pointy end, Arya." 

Rhaedeny watched as the formidable assassin leapt into his arms, weeping silently. Lady Stark quickly followed suit. As throngs of knights and lords scattered, Rhaedeny's stunned mind drifted to Izaak, her solemn twin, her only companion from birth.  _Was he still the same quiet brother she had bid farewell at the port?_

Did he even remember her? Their lessons with Thoros? How they used to sneak out to the rocky cliffs of Storm's End and run barefoot through sheets of sharp rain, tracking mud and earning harsh reprimands from the queen? If she closed her eyes, she could feel the sleet against her face, the smell of the earth and the frozen sea and the salty waves. She could hear Izaak's rare laugh, see his crooked smile. 

_Does he miss me?_

Through her reverie, she was able to truly observe the North for the first time, sensing a deadly storm brewing within the stillness. As the wind picked up, voices drifted through the air, grave concern marring most of them. "The maester was called to the Citadel last month, your Grace…" Rhaedeny paid them no mind, wandering aimlessly. 

Some time had passed before the Onion Knight tapped her on the shoulder. By then the blood had been swept over with snow, that grotesque body had been burned, and the servants were bustling to accommodate the king's newly-arrived host. It was as if no execution had just been carried out. "The king wishes to speak with you," Davos informed her gently.  _Finally,_ she thought. She was not anxious as he led her up the creaking steps of Winterfell's highest tower. She knew her mission. Her heart was at peace. After a time waiting in the cold corridor, she was given entrance into a dim chamber. 

The king was perched uncomfortably at a desk, his lady seated beside the fire with pain in her eyes. A strange Volantene woman knelt by her side with a bowl of herbs, speaking in low, soothing Valyrian. The king glanced up, somehow unnerved by the sight of Rhaedeny, but before anyone could address her, another stoic figure pushed in behind her. 

"Lord Snow," the king's woman breathed in surprise, wincing through her pains. "You have come all this way from the Wall?"

The lord commander hesitated, taking in her appearance with lifted eyebrows. "My lady sister had need of me. The journey was nothing." 

"How fine," she said politely. "Is it not noble, my king?" 

The king waved a hand, squirming upon the stool with a grimace. "Lord Snow has no real occupation anyway." 

"Have you caught a needle in your skirts, your Grace?"

The king scowled. "Shut your bastard mouth and have a look at this map." Jon sighed and shuffled over to the crinkled parchment, studying it with a serious gaze. Stannis glanced almost nervously up at the girl. "A moment, Rhaedeny. Be seated." She took her place at the other side of his desk, scarlet eyes alternating between the men and the two strange women by the fire. 

"Stannis," the priestess gasped. The king's head shot up, and they all turned to look at her. She was gripping the other woman's hand with her eyes screwed shut. "The pains do not slow," she murmured. He immediately stood.

"I'll send for you another hour," he told Lord Snow. 

The younger man frowned. "This matter is most urgent…"

"I am aware," Stannis snapped. "And now  _this_  matter is more urgent. Where is a bloody maester? Has your sister sent for one from the nearest keep?" 

"Aye…could be days, though, in this storm." The lord commander paused and considered Rhaedeny. "Shall I escort the girl?" he asked, voice more gentle. 

The king shook his head after a moment. "No, she may remain." Once Lord Snow had left the room, the woman cried out once more.

"Stannis, it is too soon…"

He sighed and strode to her chair. "Hush, my shadow. You must needs remain calm." 

The dark woman with that same teardrop tattoo said something in Valyrian, a crease set deep between her brow. The priestess's face screwed up with pain and some other emotion. "Qhava tells me there is blood." 

"The maester will solve it, Melisandre."

"Forgive me, my king..." 

He began pacing in agitation. "It was the riding. I should never have agreed to bring you."

"No," Melisandre argued sharply. "I must be here, you know I must be here, that is the whole point..." Her scarlet eyes flickered over to Rhaedeny, and in that moment, the young girl recognised her. Suddenly the breath was knocked from her lungs. "You know," Melisandre breathed, as if reading her mind.

"Yes," Rhaedeny managed.

The king stopped pacing, seeming to remember the girl's presence for the first time. "Know  _what?"_

"Who you are," Rhaedeny said calmly. "Who...I am." 

Stannis shot the priestess a bewildered look, but she had taken to clenching her eyes in pain again. "Who told you?"

"The fire," Rhaedeny admitted.

The king watched her a moment longer, then shook his head in disbelief. "Rhaedeny..." he began.

Her heart sped up with excruciating elation, as did her voice. "I did not believe my father alive, or you, my lady….certainly not together and with child." 

Stannis awkwardly cleared his throat. "Rather curious, that. So long we have awaited your return that we sought a daughter in replacement." 

His priestess glared at him, but Rhaedeny appreciated the jape. "I see," she giggled, but quickly sobered. "Then…Ser Davos did not yet tell you why we were so delayed? We were summoned by the Targaryen queen as we fled east from Volantis."

_"What?"_

Rhaedeny tried not to fidget with her skirts. "We were unharmed," she said quickly. "She only asked me…if I was somehow a Targaryen. On account of my name. I told her I had the blood in my veins…I do, do I not?"

Stannis was clearly stunned. "My grandmother was of House Targaryen."

The girl nodded. "She said it must also be the reason for my red eyes, my strange visions. That, I had to deny…I inherited those from my mother." 

Melisandre sighed. "Yes, and it is well I am here, to ensure your father acknowledges you at last." 

"Why would I not?" the king asked dryly.

"Because…R'hllor has given her a mission. And she will commit treason to fulfill it."

Stannis blanched. "She's a  _child."_

Melisandre sighed. "From birth Rhaedeny and I have struggled with one vision, but now the Lord grants us understanding in each other— " She paused until a wracking pain had passed through her body. "We have both seen you, my king, that vision of the dragonglass at Dragonstone. It is such that lead me to you so long ago. A man in the midst of a great chaos, a red sword. The man has always been you, without a doubt, my king. And so entranced was I by this man that I never gave pause to the girl behind him. I thought— " she broke off with a tight voice. "I thought that infant girl with such strange eyes…I thought it might have been Rhaedeny, and it was thus I believed her Nissa Nissa, the sacrifice needed…" Rhaedeny did not flinch under the shameful confession, nor did she show surprise. "But it was not Rhaedeny, and the man was not Azor Ahai. It was not a vision for the future at all, my king. It was a glimpse of the past…and you...during your brother's rebellion." 

Stannis watched her in incredulity. "Robert's rebellion?"

The priestess gripped the arms of her chair, her distressed gaze set upon the hearth. "It was just as you'd stormed the castle, looking to slay the surviving children in Dragonstone..." She glanced at him, the image of that pale babe in her mind. "You told Robert they had escaped you. But that was not quite true, was it?" Stannis frowned, but she continued in a gentle voice. "The innocent of the world. The one weakness that you would put before duty, great or small. A child…" She regarded Rhaedeny with sad eyes, then looked back at him. "Even a child of the enemy. You could not bear to commit such an act. So you stood there in the chamber of the painted table, and you watched as Daenerys Targaryen, the true Azor Ahai, was smuggled away. You brought your dagger to your palm and stained the floor with your own blood, to make it seem a struggle. And then you told Robert that you had failed…threw away your pride and any chance of being favoured in his eyes. By the time I landed upon the shores of Dragonstone, you were the only one left on that rotting island. The man I had seen all my life. Mine own saviour..."

Stannis opened his mouth in defense, but he could not refute her or deny the claim. 

"Do you see, my king?" Her voice came weaker now, but her words held more fire than the hearth. "It was meant to happen thus. Everything. Our entire lives have lead us to this moment…to bring Rhaedeny into the world, and to see her rise so high. She will guide Daenerys Targaryen to defeat the Others. To end this winter."

"Then what treason?" he demanded. 

"When spring is come, she shall speak with your voice in the silver queen's court." The king made a noise of derision, but she continued evenly. "If the Targaryen has already spared the child of an enemy, she will surely consider an alliance with you. You must see it happens."

He grit his teeth. "Have you lost your mind? My entire claim is founded on the invalidity of hers!" 

"You know as well as I that Westeros needs her to survive this last year of winter. You also know your Iron Throne is worthless after this war. There will be another world in springtime, a better world. You must fight for it." Her red eyes found the young girl. "So long  _I_  have fought…and now my heart is at rest."

Stannis was still stunned by the revelation, and scandalized by the proposal. "Fortunate for you. This child shall find a better home with the usurper," he spat, turning angrily toward the window.

Rhaedeny gripped her robe with pale hands. "I beg you…not to disown me, your Grace."

He spun back around. "I had planned to legitimise you with your brother. Now, how can I even  _recognise_  you? Mine own daughter, seeking an alliance with this...dragon pretender!"

She shifted nervously, and for once she looked the young girl she actually was. "I see no peace will be reached today. But think on it, your Grace. Should you choose to acknowledge Queen Daenerys, we could decide upon a sign of compromise."

"A sign? What, me handing over my crown to  _Queen_   _Daenerys?"_

Rhaedeny met his gaze boldly, feeling more confident by the moment. "No," she said simply. "I was only thinking...of my new sibling." The king froze in confusion, and she knew she had caught him in his weakness. She continued. "Choose an Essosi name…something to acknowledge the queen across the Narrow Sea. That would be enough to start. I'll see it a sign of peace and friendship between our houses...between father and daughter." 

He shook his head in disbelief. "I assume you have a name in mind, impossible girl." 

Rhaedeny sighed, sensing a glimmer of hope. "No, your Grace. I'll trust you to that."

Many hours passed, and the crease between Qhava's brow only deepened, but no one said a thing. By the fire they remained in silence, nothing but the sound of the winter storm as it raged until early morning. 

"Will you be happy there, in that wasteland?" the king inquired dryly. 

Rhaedeny blinked out of her study of the flames, her strange eyes glinting in the firelight. It took a moment to understand what he was asking. "I loved Essos and the free cities…even Volantis." She glanced at her mother, who had gone very white, and very still. "But we have reminder enough of some places," Rhaedeny finished quietly. 

"Which was your favourite, then?" Melisandre ventured. Her voice was serene, but they could all hear the strain in it.

Rhaedeny thought a moment. "Lys, I think. Such beauty in their blood, the blood of old Valyria…" The king snorted, but the priestess kept her gaze soft.  _Red, and beautiful, and red_.

"The fortnight," Melisandre sighed. "It was not a mistake, Stannis..." Rhaedeny did not understand what she was talking about, but somehow it did not matter. Soon the priestess was too wearied to keep her eyes open. "The Lord makes no mistakes."

Stannis finally sighed and knelt before her chair, giving Qhava a very deliberate look. "Sleep, my shadow," he urged. "It is light now, and the maester will be here soon." The Volantene hid the bloodied towels, backing away from the unlikely family with a stricken expression. 

Melisandre tilted her head against the chair back. "I will sleep. And you will remember Lys, my king…when our baby comes." 

He only sighed again, stroking her scarred cheek. "You always speak so queerly. You and your foolish riddles." 

She smiled weakly at him. "You will visit us at Brightwater, won't you? We will stand on the shore, as we did on Dragonstone..."

"In springtime," he promised. 

Her mother's gaze was dimming, yet when it fell upon Rhaedeny again, it shone with more than just distress.  _He will forgive you, daughter. You will know love and hope and spring._

Rhaedeny suddenly felt very sad. She averted her damp eyes to the lone window, and was stunned to see the storm broken apart by bloody fire. Involuntarily, her legs carried her up and toward the strange light. "Look, my lady…" Her lady did not look, but there was no doubt in her voice.

"The most red sunrise," she agreed. 


	11. EPILOGUE | The City in Springtime

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* * *

 "Mama, what."

Her mother glanced at the object in question. "A wildflower," she replied. "Though it is rather dead." The babe took a great interest in this contradiction, pulling violently at the shrivelled petals.

Winter children had never seen such things, after all.

"The Lord makes all things new in spring," her mother continued, extracting the stem from the girl's mouth. "The Lord gives us the sun and the rain to make flowers grow."

The Reach was thawing, and the Sunset Sea shimmered with the promise of spring. Still, ice clung stubbornly to fields around the River Honeywine, even as green poked through patches of white.

"It is your second name.  _Flowers_." 

"Fw— wa— " the babe tried to repeat the word, brow wrinkled in frustration. "Nice, good," she concluded. She would be a spring child, but she looked every bit a Snow. Her tiny body was wrapped in so many white furs that she seemed more a lamb than a babe. Tufts of dark auburn hair peeked from her hood, and her rosy cheeks were so rounded that she might be storing something within them. Presently, her mother suspected she was.

"Come, wildling. You will catch a chill."

"No." 

"Lysendy. _Come."_ The babe chose instead to shove a fistful of muddy snow into her mouth. "Oh…" Her mother swatted awkwardly at the babe's hands. "No, no."

Lysendy's blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "No," she echoed. She once more attempted to pull at the dead grass, but thanks to the furs, her arms stuck out quite stiffly from her sides. This proved fatal to her streak of rebellion. She leaned over on clumsy legs and promptly toppled over into the snow. 

The woman lifted an eyebrow. "Are you quite finished now?"

"No," the babe replied, lying stubbornly on the ground. 

"Then we shall never take you hawking again." The girl began wailing, but her mother was not fazed.

She had been a difficult child from the beginning. 

* * *

_Two days._

_That was how long it took for the savage to tear its way through her body._ _R'hllor, two full days!_

_In that time, familiar and unfamiliar voices weaved in and out of her consciousness, a world which became more and more hazy. There was the fire—her blessed fire—a strange bed beneath her, the ever-present howl of wind outside the window. And the pain. The throbbing, stabbing pain. The agonising exhaustion._

_"Sleep, my shadow. It is light now, and the maester will be here soon."_

_The maester never arrived, but the child did, piercing the second dawn with her strong cry._

_"She is alive," someone breathed. Did they mean the babe?  Her eyes were too heavy to open, and her voice did not seem to work._

_"My queen…you must stay with us…" A cool hand traced the scars on her cheek. "You must meet our princess. She is so very beautiful." The idea was not tempting. She did not want a princess. He was supposed to be a son, this nuisance in her belly—a raven-haired boy like Izaak, only built more like a warrior._

_The voices seemed too far away, as it were._ My king, _she wished to ask,_ how can I reach you? _It was as if she were caught beneath a sheet of ice, or trapped beneath the dark, biting waves of the Narrow Sea, and it was impossible to find the surface._

_"Your Grace…she is lost…"_

_Lost. Yes, she was lost. That was a good way to describe it._

_"She is not lost. See how she stirs, her hands? Think nothing of the paleness, she is always so pale, my priestess— "_

_"It is only the gods drawing the life from her…"_

_"No, it is true movement. She stitches like that each night, for her red robes. She used to do it each evening. I would watch her hands for hours, they moved quite the same with a needle."_

_"Your Grace— "_

_"She is not lost! Leave!"_

_There was little noise after that, and nothing else in the void she now called life. Only the occasional voice drifting through the darkness. "We should burn her properly, before the Others take us all for slaughter…or the Targaryen..."_

_"Don't be rash. The lord commander rides for the Wall, the king will as well. We'll survive, if his parley is done right."_

_"Yet he'll not leave her side. Nor the babe."_

_"Gods! All this for a bastard, and a shrieking girl at that..."_

_"His whore can hardly give milk, what d'you expect? Poor whelp is starved without a proper wetnurse."_

_"As I said. Long past time we burn the witch."_

What whore? _she wondered._ What witch? _Perhaps a kitchen harlot, or a gammer of the old godswood...?_

_There was movement near her. Somehow she knew it was the red girl, because her throat burned with an invisible flame._

_"Melony," she called out. The fire burned through the air, and for once it seemed to brighten the void._  Praise R'hllor _, she thought. It was so dark in the north. "Melony?" she repeated, blinking and seeing the unfamiliar chamber for the first time._

_"Mother?"_

* * *

"Maaama…mmmaaaaaa..."

_By the Lord._

"M'lady?" Her Seaworth steward bounded toward them. "Pardon, m'lady," he added, eyeing the flailing child.

She blinked through the burning in her eyes. Then she smiled, for there was every reason to smile. She had seen this moment in her flames, each and every day for the past three weeks. 

"His Grace is arrived in Oldtown. Will you desire to ride south, or await him at the keep?"

 _Waiting another moment is impossible._  "We will meet him south. Have my Lord Hightower arrange it in the city." 

Devan bowed. "As you wish, m'lady." 

She sighed as a long whine drifted up from the ground. "And Devan?"

"Yes, m'lady?" 

"Send Qhava over here to retrieve this child. Have her cleaned and disciplined before we meet with the king."

The lad—now well grown—glanced at the screaming bundle in terror. "…Yes, m'lady."  

She gripped her fine red skirts as he hurried off, thoughts drifting to her king. How she missed his rough hands, the way his eyes softened at her voice, his tall frame leaning against the doorframe. Her scarlet gaze fell upon a similar figure down the field. "Izaak," she called.

"IZAAK," Lysendy hollered, still prostrate on the muddy ground.  

The boy turned, half alarmed, yet solemn as ever. Despite his young age, his jaw was already strong as a storm king's, blue eyes so dark they might be black. After wrangling his skittish red goshawk onto his shoulder, he ran over to meet them. 

"You will want to send for Yaelyn," she advised. 

"Is the king come to the city? And Shireen and Rickon?" The smallest hint of anticipation crept into his features.

His mother smirked, taking his free arm. "Yes, and I know you will try to mask your excitement."  _You are so like your_ _father_.It was a small wonder he had been passed off as an unknown bastard in the first years of his life. 

 _And Rhaedeny..._ Aside from sharing her twin's raven hair, Rhaedeny was made in her mother's image. A storm of red, with only the smallest hint of her father's Baratheon fury. 

They rode through the weak light of a new dawn, surveying the changing landscape of their southron kingdom, the hope in the faces of smallfolk and bannermen. It was a simple pleasure to ride in the sun, she decided. She was one to count her blessings.

Downstream, she felt her heart increase its tempo, her absent prayers growing more fervent. _Soon,_ the Lord answered,  _soon you will see him, soon you will remember why you do not belong to yourself._ The thought no longer terrified her, but filled her with relief. By the time they entered the city streets, the sun was shining high, weak yet persistent through a stream of pale clouds.

"M'lady," the people said, angling their hands toward her horse. The mens' eyes lingered a moment too long on the curves beneath her red silk, on the smooth pale column of her neck and her wine-stained lips. She only smiled. 

Devan reigned in her horse at a cleared port alley, allowing her to slide unassisted from the fine leather saddle. "Thank you," she said without reason, pressing a gold coin into his palm. Her strange eyes locked upon the quiet docks. The sea called distantly, the sun playing like an illusion over the waves. For the first time in many, many years, she envisioned a woman with a dark auburn braid and a heavy collar. 

 _Melony,_ her mother cried, and she was in the bidding space once more.

Tears ran unbidden from her eyes, but she did not hide them away. The sun kissed her cheeks, and it was warmer than a flame, and still she drank the moment in. The world burned in sadness and understanding and ecstasy all around her. 

"Is it Jon Snow you fantasize about?"

She jumped slightly, eyes fluttering open. "My king," she breathed.

Before, they might have been hesitant in their affection. Now he leaned down and captured her lips openly in the sun, brushing her tears away with calloused fingers. "Mine only, what grieves you?" he murmured.  

Her eyes glanced toward the water, but the woman was no longer there. Only a red sun, and an irate Qhava stalking to capture Lysendy, who—at present—was waddling rapidly toward the edge of the docks. She turned back to the stern man before her.

"Nothing grieves me. Not anymore," she whispered. Her fingers itched, and she obliged them, reaching up to feel the shadow of his coarse black beard. Her lips tugged up at the corners. "Didn't you know, my lord? I may fantasise, but Jon Snow pines only for the dragon queen now." The man pulled a sour face.

"If I must hear of the Targaryen girl one more time— "

Her slender hands settled upon his chest. "Hush, then…" Their lips met again, and she allowed him to pull her flush to his solid body. "Do you miss your queen?" she inquired.

His blue eyes glinted. "My queen stands before me."

"But when you are in King's Landing, do you not share your wife's table? Her bed?"

He sighed longer than necessary. "Why would I? I have heirs, and no other duty by Selyse." His lips brushed her neck, and she shivered. "That unfortunate privilege goes to my honey queen." 

She scowled. "Don't call me that— "

"Queen of the honeybees." He leaned down to steal another kiss before she could scold him further. "My queen is wearing red..."

She tilted her head back slightly. "It is my favourite colour."

"Is it?" he asked dryly. His gaze darkened after a moment. "I prefer you in red as well."

"I gathered as much, after you sent so many frivolous gifts…" 

"Should I not dress my queen in the finest?" He ran his hands firmly up her sides. "Though better I prefer the skin beneath…" It was just then he jerked back, glancing down at the white bundle that had attached itself to his leg. It made an alarming screeching noise. 

"But a moment..." He plucked the pouting babe from the ground, tapping her nose. "Here is my sweetest flower," he announced. 

"Fwa— " Lysendy attempted to repeat the word, then caught sight of her mother's arched eyebrow. Evidently this reminded her of their earlier dispute in the field, and the consequences that had followed. She sniffled dramatically, burrowing into her father's doublet. "What is the matter, princess?" he demanded. "Just a moment ago you were playing, and now you are in a queer mood. Did that foolish Volantene woman interrupt your fun?" 

Her mother scowled. "This child is always in a queer mood," she muttered. "She's cross because she was disciplined."

He glanced sharply at the woman. "Nothing severe, I hope?"

"A slap on the wrist, my king. It should be Rhaedeny who is likened to  _Flowers_ , and this wildling who is called  _Storm_."

"Lys is a perfect child, and I'll not hear another word. Do not forget that your traitor daughter is just as impossible." He passed said perfect child to her, ushering them toward their small host across the harbour. Shireen and Rickon paid them no mind. They were busied with wrangling Shaggydog from the docks, their fine garments soaked with murky port water. The princess's twinkling laugh drifted through the sounds of the city, bringing a smile to the woman's lips. _It seems she's adopted some of her husband's wild Stark nature._

Her father said nothing, only observed them with a grimace. "I hear your rogue Thoros sails for Oldtown."

"He does?" she murmured, wincing as Lysendy attempted to latch onto her breast, even through a thick woolen cloak. "No," she snapped, batting at her tiny hands for the eighth time that day. The man gave her a pointed look. 

"Aye, my lady. You'll be glad to see him." She ignored his cryptic words, concentrating on restraining the babe. He smiled crookedly. "You are most charming when you do that."

She glanced up at him wryly. "When I am being bitten in the breast by your savage of a child?" 

"When you furrow your brow. It is a lovely sight, you screwing up your face." 

She scowled further, moving her gaze back to Lysendy, who had taken to swiping wildly at the air. "We are not having any more children," she declared.

"I did not ask for another."

"No, but you have a way of getting your bastards in me." 

He cracked his knuckles. "You are as much to blame…" 

"Your Grace?" One of the royal servants approached and stumbled at the unsettling sight of the red woman. 

His Grace did not appreciate the interruption. "Well? Don't just stand there." 

"A raven from...Ser Thoros. He and the…Lady Storm are just a day's south." 

"Ser Thoros, Lady Storm," the king muttered. "Would you throw a title at every pigeon in King's Landing?"  

The woman shot him an accusatory look, her heart pounding in disbelief and elation. " _Lady Storm?_ Rhaedeny sails for Westeros—for the _Reach?"_

"What would I know about turncloaks?" he demanded, voice innocent.

A furry elbow collided with her nose before she could expose his lies. " _Lysendy,"_  she hissed. The child continued to thrash and shriek against her mother's arms. "Lysendy, calm!"

"Come, my little snow lamb." The man swiftly collected the bundle of fur. "Would you like to play with your sister? Shireen and the turncloak both? It is a rare day to see all of my princesses in the sun."

The woman lifted her eyebrows to the sky. "What about Izaak?"

"Izaak is not a princess," he replied, bouncing the plump girl in his arms. 

"Izaak," Lysendy echoed. She had finally calmed, now gurgling with delight. 

"She behaves for  _you_ ," the woman grumbled, though she was still reeling from the news of her daughter's voyage. "Only because you spoil her."

"Papa. Papa."

"I do not spoil her." He offered his gloved finger for the girl to chew upon. 

"Rotten. She thrusts her chubby toes east, you carry her east." 

He recoiled, thoroughly offended. "Is it a crime for a man to hold his baby now?" 

"And let her sleep in our bed…"  _That_  was meant to be a single occurrence, after all. That first night she'd woken from her delirium at Winterfell, the king had laid gingerly beside her, the babe whimpering and drowsing between them. He'd fussed over her like a prim old septa. 

He'd fussed over them both, and still did. 

"Papa," Lysendy paused in biting his finger to contribute to the conversation. "Papa, nice."

"Yes, I am." He gave the woman a look. "But she will sleep in her nursery. Tonight, I have a queen to appease..." 

After a time riding upstream to Brightwater, the man and the woman found pace next to each other, the babe drifting off against her father's chest. He followed the woman's gaze across the gentle, flowing river. "Do you still dream of fleeing? Of finding the heavens with your god's champion?"

She turned to look at him, bathed in the red rays of dusk. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But you are my champion, my king. It is yours to say whether we should chase greater glory." 

His eyes fell upon the sleeping girl in his arms, then back to the sun-kissed road before them. "What greater glory?" he asked dryly. "I have a goddess by my side, and heaven in the palm of my hand." 


End file.
